THE  NIGHT-BORN 


CONTENTS 


1913 


PAGE 

THE  NIGHT-BORN    ........       3 

THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED  .      .      .      .     33 

WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG  .  .     65 

THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT  .....     99 

WINGED  BLACKMAIL     ......      .135 

BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES     ......   153 

WAR   ............   183 

UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS   .      .      .      .      .   197 

To  KILL  A  MAN  .........  215 

THE  MEXICAN   ...      .     .....  2-43 


3.33810 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

IT  was  in  the  old  Alta-Inyo  Club — a  warm 
night  for  San  Francisco— and  through  the 
open  windows,  hushed  and  far,  came  the  brawl 
of  the  streets.  The  talk  had  led  on  from  the 
Graft  Prosecution  and  the  latest  signs  that  the 
town  was  to  be  run  wide  open,  down  through  all 
the  grotesque  sordidness  and  rottenness  of  man- 
hate  and  man-meanness,  until  the  name  of 
O'Brien  was  mentioned — O'Brien,  the  promising 
young  pugilist  who  hnd  been  killed  in  the  prize- 
ring  the  night  before.  At  once  the  air  had  seemed 
to  freshen.  O'Brien  had  been  a  clean-living 
young  man  with  ideals.  He  neither  drank, 
smoked,  nor  swore,  and  his  had  been  the  body  of 
a  beautiful  young  god.  He  had  even  carried  his 
prayer-book  to  the  ringside.  They  found  it  in 
his  coat  pocket  in  the  dressing-room  „ .  .  . 
afterward. 

Here  was  Youth,  clean  and  wholesome,  un 
sullied—the  thing  of  glory  and  wonder  for  men 
to  conjure  with  .  .  .  after  it  has  been  lost 
to  them  and  they  have  turned  middle-aged.  And 

3 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

so  well  did  we  conjure,  that  Romance  came  and 
for  an  hour  led  us  far  from  the  man-city  and  its 
snarling  roar.  Bardwell,  in  a  way,  started  it  by 
quoting  from  Thoreau;  but  it  was  old  Trefethan, 
bald-headed  and  dewlapped,  who  took  up  the 
quotation  and  for  the  hour  to  come  was  Romance 
incarnate.  At  first  we  might  have  wondered  how 
many  Scotches  he  had  consumed  since  dinner,  but 
very  soon  all  that  was  forgotten. 

"It  was  in  1898 — I  was  thirty-five  then,"  he 
said.  "Yes,  I  know  you  are  adding  it  up. 
You're  right.  I'm  forty-even  now;  look  ten 
years  more;  and  the  doctors  say — damn  the  doc 
tors  anyway!" 

He  lifted  the  long  glass  to  his  lips  and  sipped 
it  slowly  to  soothe  away  his  irritation. 

"But  I  was  young  .  .  .  once.  I  was 
young  twelve  years  ago,  and  I  had  hair  on  top  of 
my  head,  and  my  stomach  was  lean  as  a  runner's, 
and  the  longest  day  was  none  too  long  for  me.  I 
was  a  husky  back  there  in  '98.  You  remember 
me,  Milner.  You  knew  me  then.  Was  n't  I  a 
pretty  good  bit  of  all  right  ?" 

Milner  nodded  and  agreed.  Like  Trefethan, 
he  was  another  mining  engineer  who  had  cleaned 
up  a  fortune  in  the  Klondike. 

4- 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

"You  certainly  were,  old  man,"  Milner  said. 
"I  '11  never  forget  when  you  cleaned  out  those 
lumberjacks  in  the  M.  &  M.  that  night  that  little 
newspaper  man  started  the  row.  Slavin  was  in 
the  country  at  the  time," — this  to  us —  "and  his 
manager  wanted  to  get  up  a  match  with 
Trefethan." 

"Well,  look  at  me  now,"  Trefethan  com 
manded  angrily.  "That's  what  the  Goldstead 
did  to  me — God  knows  how  many  millions,  but 
nothing  left  in  my  soul  .  .  .  nor  in  my 
veins.  The  good  red  blood  is  gone.  I  am  a 
jellyfish,  a  huge,  gross  mass  of  oscillating  proto 
plasm,  a — a  .  .  ." 

But  language  failed  him,  and  he  drew  solace 
from  the  long  glass. 

"Women  looked  at  me  .  .  .  then;  and 
turned  their  heads  to  look  a  second  time.  Strange 
that  I  never  married.  But  the  girl.  That's 
what  I  started  to  tell  you  about.  I  met  her  a 
thousand  miles  from  anywhere,  and  then  some. 
And  she  quoted  to  me  those  very  words  of 
Thoreau  that  Bardwell  quoted  a  moment  ago — 
the  ones  about  the  day-born  gods  and  the  night- 
born. 

"It  was  after  I  had  made  my  locations  on  Gold- 
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THE  NIGHT-BORN 

stead — and  did  n't  know  what  a  treasure-pot  that 
creek  was  going  to  prove — that  I  made  that  trip 
east  over  the  Rockies,  angling  across  to  the  Great 
Slave.  Up  North  there  the  Rockies  are  some 
thing  more  than  a  back-bone.  They  are  a  bound 
ary,  a  dividing  line,  a  wall  impregnable  and  un 
scalable.  There  is  no  intercourse  across  them, 
though,  on  occasion,  from  the  early  days,  wander 
ing  trappers  have  crossed  them,  though  more  were 
lost  by  the  way  than  ever  came  through.  And 
that  was  precisely  why  I  tackled  the  job.  It  was 
a  traverse  any  man  would  be  proud  to  make.  I 
am  prouder  of  it  right  now  than  anything  else  I 
have  ever  done. 

"It  is  an  unknown  land.  Great  stretches  of 
it  have  never  been  explored.  There  are  big  val 
leys  there  where  the  white  man  has  never  set  foot, 
and  Indian  tribes  as  primitive  as  ten  thousand 
years  .  .  .  almost,  for  they  have  had  some 
contact  with  the  whites.  Parties  of  them  come 
out  once  in  a  while  to  trade,  and  that  is  all. 
Even  the  Hudson  Bay  Company  failed  to  find 
them  and  farm  them. 

"And  now  the  girl.  I  was  coming  up  a  stream 
— you  'd  call  it  a  river  in  California — uncharted 
and  unnamed.  It  was  a  noble  valley,  now  shut 

6 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

in  by  high  canyon  walls,  and  again  opening  out 
into  beautiful  stretches,  wide  and  long,  with  pas 
ture  shoulder-high  in  the  bottoms,  meadows  dot 
ted  with  flowers,  and  with  clumps  of  timber — 
spruce — virgin  and  magnificent.  The  dogs  were 
packing  on  their  backs,  and  were  sore-footed  and 
played  out;  while  I  was  looking  for  any  bunch  of 
Tndians  to  get  sleds  and  drivers  from  and  go  on 
with  the  first  snow.  It  was  late  fall,  but  the  way 
those  flowers  persisted  surprised  me.  I  was  sup 
posed  to  be  in  sub-arctic  America,  and  high  up 
among  the  buttresses  of  the  Rockies,  and  yet  there 
was  that  everlasting  spread  of  flowers.  Some 
day  the  white  settlers  will  be  in  there  and  grow 
ing  wheat  down  all  that  vaHey. 

"And  then  I  lifted  a  smoke,  and  heard  the 
barking  of  the  dogs — Indian  dogs — and  came  into 
camp.  There  must  have  been  five  hundred  of 
them,  proper  Indians  at  that,  and  I  could  see  by 
the  jerking- frames  that  the  fall  hunting  had  been 
good.  And  then  I  met  her — Lucy.  That  was 
her  name.  Sign  language — that  was  all  we  could 
talk  with,  till  they  led  me  to  a  big  fly — you  know, 
half  a  tent,  open  on  the  one  side  where  a  camp- 
fire  burned.  It  was  all  of  moose-skins,  this  fly — 
moose-skins,  smoke-cured,  hand-rubbed,  and  gol- 

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THE  NIGHT-BORN 

den-brown.  Under  it  everything  was  neat  and 
orderly,  as  no  Indian  camp  ever  was.  The  bed 
was  laid  on  fresh  spruce  boughs.  There  were 
furs  galore,  and  on  top  of  all  was  a  robe  of  swan 
skins — white  swan-skins — I  have  never  seen  any 
thing  like  that  robe.  And  on  top  of  it,  sitting 
cross-legged,  was  Lucy.  She  was  nut-brown.  I 
have  called  her  a  girl.  But  she  was  not.  She 
was  a  woman,  a  nut-brown  woman,  an  Amazon, 
a  full-blooded,,  full-bodied  woman,  and  royal 
ripe.  And  her  eyes  were  blue. 

"That 's  what  took  me  off  my  feet — her  eyes — 
blue,  not  China  blue,  but  deep  blue,  like  the  sea 
and  sky  all  melted  into  one,  and  very  wise. 
More  than  that,  they  had  laughter  in  them — 
warm  laughter,  sun- warm  and  human,  very  hu 
man,  and  .  .  .  shall  I  say  feminine?  They 
were.  They  were  a  woman's  eyes,  a  proper 
woman's  eyes.  You  know  what  that  means. 
Can  I  say  more?  Also,  in  those  blue  eyes  were, 
at  the  same  time,  a  wild  unrest,  a  wistful  yearn 
ing,  and  a  repose,  an  absolute  repose,  a  sort  of  all- 
wise  and  philosophical  calm." 

Trefethan  broke  off  abruptly. 

"You  fellows  think  I  am  screwed.  1 3m  not. 
This  is  only  my  fifth  since  dinner.  I  am  dead 

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THE  NIGHT-BORN 

sober.  I  am  solemn.  I  sit  here  now  side  by  side 
with  my  sacred  youth.  It  is  not  I — 'old'  Tre- 
fethan — that  talks;  it  is  my  youth,  and  it  is  my 
youth  that  says  those  were  the  most  wonderful 
eyes  I  have  ever  seen — so  very  calm,  so  very  rest 
less  ;  so  very  wise,  so  very  curious ;  so  very  old,  so 
very  young;  so  satisfied  and  yet  yearning  so  wist 
fully.  Boys,  I  can't  describe  them.  When  I 
have  told  you  about  her,  you  may  know  better 
for  yourselves. 

"She  did  not  stand  up.  But  she  put  out  her 
hand. 

"  'Stranger,'  she  said,  'I'm  real  glad  to  see  you.' 

"I  leave  it  to  you — that  sharp,  frontier,  West 
ern  tang  of  speech.  Picture  my  sensations.  It 
was  a  woman,  a  white  woman,  but  that  tang! 
It  was  amazing  that  it  should  be  a  white  woman, 
here,  beyond  the  last  boundary  of  the  world — 
but  the  tang.  I  tell  you,  it  hurt.  It  was  like  the 
stab  of  a  flatted  note.  And  yet,  let  me  tell 
you,  that  woman  was  a  poet.  You  shall  see. 

"She  dismissed  the  Indians.  And,  by  Jove, 
they  went.  They  took  her  orders  and  followed 
her  blind.  She  was  hi-yu  skookum  chief.  She 
told  the  bucks  to  make  a  camp  for  me  and  to 
take  care  of  my  dogs.  And  they  did,  too.  And 

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THE  NIGHT-BORN 

they  knew  enough  not  to  get  away  with  as  much 
as  a  moccasin-lace  of  my  outfit.  She  was  a  regu 
lar  She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed,  and  I  want  to  tell 
you  it  chilled  me  to  the  marrow,  sent  those  little 
thrills  Marathoning  up  and  down  my  spinal 
column,  meeting  a  white  woman  out  there  at  the 
head  of  a  tribe  of  savages  a  thousand  miles  the 
other  side  of  No  Man's  Land. 

"  'Stranger,'  she  said,  'I  reckon  you  're  sure  the 
first  white  that  ever  set  foot  in  this  valley.  Set 
down  an'  talk  a  spell,  and  then  we  '11  have  a  bite 
to  eat.  Which  way  might  you  be  comin"?' 

"There  it  was,  that  tang  again.  But  from 
now  to  the  end  of  the  yarn  I  want  you  to  forget 
it.  I  tell  you  I  forgot  it,  sitting  there  on  the  edge 
of  that  swan-skin  robe  and  listening  and  looking 
at  the  most  wonderful  woman  that  ever  stepped 
out  of  the  pages  of  Thoreau  or  of  any  other  man's 
book. 

"I  stayed  on  there  a  week.  It  was  on  her  in 
vitation.  She  promised  to  fit  me  out  with  dogs 
and  sleds  and  with  Indians  that  would  put  me 
across  the  best  pass  of  the  Rockies  in  five  hundred 
miles.  Her  fly  was  pitched  apart  from  the  others, 
on  the  high  bank  by  the  river,  and  a  couple  of 
Indian  girls  did  her  cooking  for  her  and  the  camp 

10 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

work.  And  so  we  talked  and  talked,  while 
the  first  snow  fell  and  continued  to  fall  and 
make  a  surface  for  my  sleds.  And  this  was  her 
story. 

"She  was  frontier-born,  of  poor  settlers,  and 
you  know  what  that  means — work,  work,  always 
work,  work  in  plenty  and  without  end. 

"  'I  never  seen  the  glory  of  the  world,'  she  said. 
'I  had  no  time.  I  knew  it  was  right  out  there, 
anywhere,  all  around  the  cabin,  but  there  was 
always  the  bread  to  set,  the  scrubbin'  and  the 
washin'  and  the  work  that  was  never  done.  I 
used  to  be  plumb  sick  at  times,  jes'  to  get  out  into 
it  all,  especially  in  the  spring  when  the  songs 
of  the  birds  drove  me  most  clean  crazy.  I  wanted 
to  run  out  through  the  long  pasture  grass,  wetting 
rny  legs  with  the  dew  of  it,  and  to  climb  the  rail 
fence,  and  keep  on  through  the  timber  and  up 
and  up  over  the  divide  so  as  to  get  a  look  around. 
Oh,  I  had  all  kinds  of  hankerings — to  follow  up 
the  canyon  beds  and  slosh  around  from  pool  to 
pool,  making  friends  with  the  water-dogs  and  the 
speckly  trout;  to  peep  on  the  sly  and  watch  the 
squirrels  and  rabbits  and  small  furry  things  and 
see  what  they  was  doing  and  learn  the  secrets  of 
their  ways.  Seemed  to  me,  if  I  had  time,  I  could 

11 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

crawl  among  the  flowers,  and,  if  I  was  good  and 
quiet,  catch  them  whispering  with  themselves, 
telling  all  kinds  of  wise  things  that  mere  humans 
never  know.' ' 

Trefethan  paused  to  see  that  his  glass  had  been 
refilled. 

"Another  time  she  said :  'I  wanted  to  run  nights 
like  a  wild  thing,  just  to  run  through  the  moon 
shine  and  under  the  stars,  to  run  white  and  naked 
in  the  darkness  that  I  knew  must  feel  like  cool 
velvet,  and  to  run  and  run  and  keep  on  running. 
One  evening,  plumb  tuckered  out — it  had  been 
a  dreadful  hard  hot  day,  and  the  bread  would  n't 
raise  and  the  churning  had  gone  wrong,  and  I 
was  all  irritated  and  jerky — well,  that  evening  I 
made  mention  to  dad  of  this  wanting  to  run  of 
mine.  He  looked  at  me  curious-some  and  a  bit 
scared.  And  then  he  gave  me  two  pills  to  take. 
Said  to  go  to  bed  and  get  a  good  sleep  and  I  'd 
be  all  hunky-dory  in  the  morning.  So  I  never 
mentioned  my  hankerings  to  him,  or  any  one  any 
more.' 

"The  mountain  home  broke  up — starved  out, 
I  imagine — and  the  family  came  to  Seattle  to  live. 
There  she  worked  in  a  factory — long  hours,  you 
know,  and  all  the  rest,  deadly  work.  And  after 

12 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

a  year  of  that  she  became  waitress  in  a  cheap 
restaurant — hash-slinger,  she  called  it. 

"She  said  to  me  once,  'Romance  I  guess  was 
what  I  wanted.  But  there  wan't  no  romance 
floating  around  in  dishpans  and  washtubs,  or  in 
factories  and  hash-joints.' 

"When  she  was  eighteen  she  married — a  man 
who  was  going  up  to  Juneau  to  start  a  restaurant. 
He  had  a  few  dollars  saved,  and  appeared  pros 
perous.  She  did  n't  love  him — she  was  emphatic 
about  that;  but  she  was  all  tired  out,  and  she 
wanted  to  get  away  from  the  unending  drudgery. 
Besides,  Juneau  was  in  Alaska,  and  her  yearning 
took  the  form  of  a  desire  to  see  that  wonderland. 
But  little  she  saw  of  it.  He  started  the  restau 
rant,  a  little  cheap  one,  and  she  quickly  learned 
what  he  had  married  her  for  .  5*^fScto  save 
paying  wages.  She  came  pretty  close  to  running 
the  joint  and  doing  all  the  work  from  waiting  to 
dishwashing.  She  cooked  most  of  the  time  as 
well.  And  she  had  four  years  of  it. 

"Can't  you  picture  her,  this  wild  woods  crea 
ture,  quick  with  every  old  primitive  instinct, 
yearning  for  the  free  open,  and  mowed  up  in  a 
vile  little  hash-joint  and  toiling  and  moiling  for 
four  mortal  years'? 

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THE  NIGHT-BORN 

"  'There  was  no  meaning  in  anything,'  she  said. 
What  was  it  all  about ^  Why 'was  I  born*? 
Was  that  all  the  meaning  of  life — just  to  work 
and  work  and  be  always  tired  *? — to  go  to  bed 
tired  and  to  wake  up  tired,  with  every  day  like 
every  other  day  unless  it  was  harder4?'  She  had 
heard  talk  of  immortal  life  from  the  gospel 
sharps,  she  said,  but  she  could  not  reckon  that 
what  she  was  doing  was  a  likely  preparation  for 
her  immortality. 

"But  she  still  had  her  dreams,  though  more 
rarely.  She  had  read  a  few  books — what,  it  is 
pretty  hard  to  imagine,  Seaside  Library  novels 
most  likely;  yet  they  had  been  food  for  fancy. 
'Sometimes,"  she  said,  'when  I  was  that  dizzy 
from  the  heat  of  the  cooking  that  if  I  did  n't  take 
a  breath  of  fresh  air  I  'd  faint,  I  'd  stick  my  head 
out  of  the  kitchen  window  and  close  my  eyes  and 
see  most  wonderful  things.  All  of  a  sudden  I  'd 
be  traveling  down  a  country  road,  and  everything 
clean  and  quiet,  no  dust,  no  dirt;  just  streams 
ripplin'  down  sweet  meadows,  and  lambs  playing, 
breezes  blowing  the  breath  of  flowers,  and  soft 
sunshine  over  everything;  and  lovely  cows  lazying 
knee-deep  in  quiet  pools,  and  young  girls  bath 
ing  in  a  curve  of  stream  all  white  and  slim  and 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

natural — and  I  'd  know  I  was  in  Arcady.  I  'd 
read  about  that  country  once,  in  a  book.  And 
maybe  knights,  all  flashing  in  the  sun,  would 
come  riding  around  a  bend  in  the  road,  or  a  lady 
on  a  milk-white  mare,  and  in  the  distance  I  could 
see  the  towers  of  a  castle  rising,  or  I  just  knew, 
on  the  next  turn,  that  1 'd  come  upon  some  palace, 
all  white  and  airy  and  fairy-like,  with  fountains 
playing,  and  flowers  all  over  everything,  and 
peacocks  on  the  lawn  .  .  .  and  then  I  Jd 
open  my  eyes,  and  the  heat  of  the  cooking  range 
would  strike  on  me,  and  I  'd  hear  Jake  sayin' — 
he  was  my  husband — I  'd  hear  Jake  sayin',  "Why 
ain't  you  served  them  beans?  Think  I  can  wait 
here  all  day!"  Romance! — I  reckon  the  nearest 
I  ever  come  to  it  was  when  a  drunken  Armenian 
cook  got  the  snakes  and  tried  to  cut  my  throat 
with  a  potato  knife  and  I  got  my  arm  burned  on 
the  stove  before  I  could  lay  him  out  with  the 
potato  stomper. 

"  T  wanted  easy  ways,  and  lovely  things,  and 
Romance  and  all  that;  but  it  just  seemed  I  had 
no  luck  nohow  and  was  only  and  expressly  born 
for  cooking  and  dishwashing.  There  was  a  wild 
crowd  in  Juneau  them  days,  but  I  looked  at  the 
other  women,  and  their  way  of  life  did  n't  excite 

' 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

me.  I  reckon  I  wanted  to  be  clean.  I  don't 
know  why;  I  just  wanted  to,  I  guess;  and  I 
reckoned  I  might  as  well  die  dishwashing  as  die 
their  way.5 ' 

Trefethan  halted  in  his  tale  for  a  moment,  com 
pleting  to  himself  some  thread  of  thought. 

"And  this  is  the  woman  I  met  up  there  in  the 
Arctic,  running  a  tribe  of  wild  Indians  and  a  few 
thousand  square  miles  of  hunting  territory.  And 
it  happened  simply  enough,  though,  for  that  mat 
ter,  she  might  have  lived  and  died  among  the  pots 
and  pans.  But  'Came  the  whisper,  came  the  vi 
sion.'  That  was  all  she  needed,  and  she  got  it. 

"  'I  woke  up  one  day,'  she  said.  'Just  hap 
pened  on  it  in  a  scrap  of  newspaper.  I  remem 
ber  every  word  of  it,  and  I  can  give  it  to  you.' 
And  then  she  quoted  Thoreau's  Cry  of  the 
Human: 

"  'The  young  pines  springing  upt  in  the  corn 
field  from  year  to  year  are  to  me  a  refreshing  fact. 
We  talk  of  civilizing  the  Indian,  but  that  is  not 
the  name  for  his  improvement.  By  the  wary  in 
dependence  and  aloofness  of  his  dim  forest  life 
he  preserves  his  intercourse  with  his  native  gods 
and  is  admitted  from  time  to  time  to  a  rare  and 
peculiar  society  with  nature.  He  has  glances  of 

16 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

starry  recognition,  to  which  our  saloons  are 
strangers.  The  steady  illumination  of  his  genius, 
dim  only  because  distant,  is  like  the  faint  but  sat" 
isfying  light  of  the  stars  compared  with  the  daz 
zling  but  ineffectual  and  shortlived  blaze  of 
candles.  The  Society  Islanders  had  their  day- 
born  gods,  but  they  were  not  supposed  to  be  of 
equal  antiquity  with  the  .  .  .  night-born 
gods.9 

"That's  what  she  did,  repeated  it  word  for 
word,  and  I  forgot  the  tang,  for  it  was  solemn,  a 
declaration  of  religion — pagan,  if  you  will;  and 
clothed  in  the  living  garmenture  of  herself. 

"  'And  the  rest  of  it  was  torn  away,'  she  added, 
a  great  emptiness  in  her  voice.  'It  was  only  a 
scrap  of  newspaper.  But  that  Thoreau  was  a 
wise  man.  I  wish  I  knew  more  about  him.'  She 
stopped  a  moment,  and  I  swear  her  face  was  in 
effably  holy  as  she  said,  'I  could  have  made  him  a 
good  wife.' 

"And  then  she  went  on.  'I  knew  right  away, 
as  soon  as  I  read  that,  what  was  the  matter  with 
me.  I  was  a  night-born.  I,  who  had  lived  all 
my  life  with  the  day-born,  was  a  night-born. 
That  was  why  I  had  never  been  satisfied  with 
cooking  and  dishwashing;  that  was  why  I  had 

17 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

hankered  to  run  naked  in  the  moonlight.  And 
I  knew  that  this  dirty  little  Juneau  hash-joint 
was  no  place  for  me.  And  right  there  and  then 
I  said,  "I  quit."  I  packed  up  my  few  rags  of 
clothes,  and  started.  Jake  saw  me  and  tried  to 
stop  me. 

"  '  "What  you  doing?"  he  says. 

" '  "Divorcin'  you  and  me,"  I  says.  "I  'm 
headin'  for  tall  timber  and  where  I  belong." 

"  '  "No  you  don't,"  he  says,  reaching  for  me  to 
stop  me.  "The  cookin'  has  got  on  your  head. 
You  listen  to  me  talk  before  you  up  and  do  any 
thing  brash." 

"  'But  I  pulled  a  gun — a  little  Colt's  forty- 
four — and  says,  "This  does  my  talkin'  for  me." 

"  'And  I  left.'  " 

Trefethan  emptied  his  glass  and  called  for 
another. 

"Boys,  do  you  know  what  that  girl  did?  She 
was  twenty-two.  She  had  spent  her  life  over  the 
dish-pan  and  she  knew  no  more  about  the  world 
than  I  do  of  the  fourth  dimension,  or  the  fifth. 
All  roads  led  to  her  desire.  No;  she  did  n't  head 
for  the  dance-halls.  On  the  Alaskan  Pan-handle 
it  is  preferable  to  travel  by  water.  She  went 
down  to  the  beach.  An  Indian  canoe  was  start- 

18 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

ing  for  Dyea — you  know  the  kind,  carved  out  of 
a  single  tree,  narrow  and  deep  and  sixty  feet  long. 
She  gave  them  a  couple  of  dollars  and  got  on 
board. 

"  'Romance  *?'  she  told  me.  'It  was  Romance 
from  the  jump.  There  were  three  families  alto 
gether  in  that  canoe,  and  that  crowded  there 
was  n't  room  to  turn  around,  with  dogs  and  In 
dian  babies  sprawling  over  everything,  and  every 
body  dipping  a  paddle  and  making  that  canoe  go. 
And  all  around  the  great  solemn  mountains,  and 
tangled  drifts  of  clouds  and  sunshine.  And  oh, 
the  silence!  the  great  wonderful  silence!  And, 
once,  the  smoke  of  a  hunter's  camp,  away  off  in 
the  distance,  trailing  among  the  trees.  It  was 
like  a  picnic,  a  grand  picnic,  and  I  could  see  my 
dreams  coming  true,  and  I  was  ready  for  some 
thing  to  happen  'most  any  time.  And  it  did. 

"  'And  that  first  camp,  on  the  island !  And 
the  boys  spearing  fish  in  the  mouth  of  the  creek, 
and  the  big  deer  one  of  the  bucks  shot  just  around 
the  point.  And  there  were  flowers  everywhere, 
and  in  back  from  the  beach  the  grass  was  thick 
and  lush  and  neck-high.  And  some  of  the  girls 
went  through  this  with  me,  and  we  climbed  the 
hillside  behind  and  picked  berries  and  roots  that 

19 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

tasted  sour  and  were  good  to  eat.  And  we  came 
upon  a  big  bear  in  the  berries  making  his  supper, 
and  he  said  "Oof!"  and  ran  away  as  scared  as 
we  were.  And  then  the  camp,  and  the  camp 
smoke,  and  the  smell  of  fresh  venison  cooking. 
It  was  beautiful.  I  was  with  the  night-born  at 
last,  and  I  knew  that  was  where  I  belonged. 
And  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  it  seemed  to  me, 
I  went  to  bed  happy  that  night,  looking  out  under 
a  corner  of  the  canvas  at  the  stars  cut  off  black 
by  a  big  shoulder  of  mountain,  and  listening  to 
the  night-noises,  and  knowing  that  the  same  thing 
would  go  on  next  day  and  forever  and  ever,  for 
I  was  n't  going  back.  And  I  never  did  go  back. 

"  'Romance !  I  got  it  next  day.  We  had  to 
cross  a  big  arm  of  the  ocean — twelve  or  fifteen 
miles,  at  least;  and  it  came  on  to  blow  when  we 
were  in  the  middle.  That  night  I  was  along  on 
shore,  with  one  wolf-dog,  and  I  was  the  only  one 
left  alive.' 

"Picture  it  yourself,"  Trefethan  broke  off  to 
say.  "The  canoe  was  wrecked  and  lost,  and 
everybody  pounded  to  death  on  the  rocks  except 
her.  She  went  ashore  hanging  on  to  a  dog's  tail, 
escaping  the  rocks  and  washing  up  on  a  tiny  beach, 
the  only  one  in  miles. 

20 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

"  cLucky  for  me  it  was  the  mainland/  she  said. 
'So  I  headed  right  away  back,  through  the  woods 
and  over  the  mountains  and  straight  on  anywhere. 
Seemed  I  was  looking  for  something  and  knew 
I  'd  find  it.  I  was  n't  afraid.  I  was  night-born, 
and  the  big  timber  could  n't  kill  me.  And  on  the 
second  day  I  found  it.  I  came  upon  a  small 
clearing  and  a  tumbledown  cabin.  Nobody  had 
been  there  for  years  and  years.  The  roof  had 
fallen  in.  Rotted  blankets  lay  in  the  bunks, 
and  pots  and  pans  were  on  the  stove.  But  that 
was  not  the  most  curious  thing.  Outside,  along 
the  edge  of  the  trees,  you  can't  guess  what  I 
found.  The  skeletons  of  eight  horses,  each  tied 
to  a  tree.  They  had  starved  to  death,  I  reckon, 
and  left  only  little  piles  of  bones  scattered  some 
here  and  there.  And  each  horse  had  had  a  load 
on  its  back.  There  the  loads  lay,  in  among  the 
bones — painted  canvas  sacks,  and  inside  moose- 
hide  sacks,  and  inside  the  moosehide  sacks — what 
do  you  think?' 

"She  stopped,  reached  under  a  corner  of  the 
bed  among  the  spruce  boughs,  and  pulled  out  a 
leather  sack.  She  untied  the  mouth  and  ran  out 
into  my  hand  as  pretty  a  stream  of  gold  as  I  have 
ever  seen — coarse  gold,  placer  gold,  some  large 

21 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

dust,  but  mostly  nuggets,  and  it  was  so  fresh  and 
rough  that  it  scarcely  showed  signs  of  water-wash. 

"  'You  say  you  're  a  mining  engineer,'  she  said, 
'and  you  know  this  country.  Can  you  name  a 
pay-creek  that  has  the  color  of  that  gold?' 

"I  could  n't.  There  was  n't  a  trace  of  silver. 
It  was  almost  pure,  and  I  told  her  so. 

"  'You  bet,'  she  said.  T  sell  that  for  nineteen 
dollars  an  ounce.  You  can't  get  over  seventeen 
for  Eldorado  gold,  and  Minook  gold  don't  fetch 
quite  eighteen.  Well,  that  was  what  I  found 
among  the  bones — eight  horse-loads  of  it,  one 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds  to  the  load.' 

"  'A  quarter  of  a  million  dollars !'     I  cried  out. 

"  'That's  what  I  reckoned  it  roughly,'  she  an 
swered.  'Talk  about  Romance!  And  me  a 
slaving  the  way  I  had  all  the  years,  when  as  soon 
as  I  ventured  out,  inside  three  days,  this  was  what 
happened.  And  what  became  of  the  men  that 
mined  all  that  gold?  Often  and  often  I  wonder 
about  it.  They  left  their  horses,  loaded  and  tied, 
and  just  disappeared  off  the  face  of  the  earth, 
leaving  neither  hide  nor  hair  behind  them.  I 
never  heard  tell  of  them.  Nobody  knows  any 
thing  about  them.  Well,  being  the  night-born,  I 
reckon  I  was  their  rightful  heir.' ' 

22 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

Trefethan  stopped  to  light  a  cigar. 

"Do  you  know  what  that  girl  did*?  She 
cached  the  gold,  saving  out  thirty  pounds,  which 
she  carried  back  to  the  coast.  Then  she  signaled 
a  passing  canoe,  made  her  way  to  Pat  Healy's 
trading  post  at  Dyea,  outfitted,  and  went  over 
Chilcoot  Pass.  That  was  in  '88 — eight  years  be 
fore  the  Klondike  strike,  and  the  Yukon  was  a 
howling  wilderness.  She  was  afraid  of  the  bucks, 
but  she  took  two  young  squaws  with  her,  crossed 
the  lakes,  and  went  down  the  river  and  to  all  the 
early  camps  on  the  Lower  Yukon.  She  wan 
dered  several  years  over  that  country  and  then  on 
in  to  where  I  met  her.  Liked  the  looks  of  it,  she 
said,  seeing,  in  her  own  words,  'a  big  bull  caribou 
knee-deep  in  purple  iris  on  the  valley-bottom/ 
She  hooked  up  with  the  Indians,  doctored  them, 
gained  their  confidence,  and  gradually  took  them 
in  charge.  She  had  only  left  that  country  once, 
and  then,  with  a  bunch  of  the  young  bucks,  she 
went  over  Chilcoot,  cleaned  up  her  gold-cache,  and 
brought  it  back  with  her. 

"  'And  here  I  be,  stranger,'  she  concluded  her 
yarn,  'and  here  's  the  most  precious  thing  I  own,' 

"She  pulled  out  a  little  pouch  of  buckskin, 
worn  on  her  neck  like  a  locket,  and  opened  it. 

23 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

And  inside,  wrapped  in  oiled  silk,  yellowed  with 
age  and  worn  and  thumbed,  was  the  original  scrap 
of  newspaper  containing  the  quotation  from 
Thoreau. 

"  'And  are  you  happy?  .  .  .  satisfied ?' 
I  asked  her.  'With  a  quarter  of  a  million  you 
would  n't  have  to  work  down  in  the  States.  YOU 
must  miss  a  lot.' 

"  'Not  much,'  she  answered.  'I  would  n't 
swop  places  with  any  woman  down  in  the  States. 
These  are  my  people;  this  is  where  I  belong. 
But  there  are  times — '  and  in  her  eyes  smoldered 
up  that  hungry  yearning  I  've  mentioned — 'there 
are  times  when  I  wish  most  awful  bad  for  that 
Thoreau  man  to  happen  along.' 

"  'Why?'  I  asked. 

"  'So  as  I  could  marry  him.  I  do  get  mighty 
lonesome  at  spells.  I  'm  just  a  woman — a  real 
woman.  I  've  heard  tell  of  the  other  kind  of 
women  that  gallivanted  off  like  me  and  did  queer 
things — the  sort  that  become  soldiers  in  armies 
and  sailors  on  ships.  But  those  women  are  queer 
themselves.  They  're  more  like  men  than 
women;  they  look  like  men  and  they  don't  have 
ordinary  women's  needs.  They  don't  want  love, 
nor  little  children  in  their  arms  and  around  their 

24 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

knees.     I  'm  not  that  sort.     I  leave  it  to  you, 
stranger.     Do  I  look  like  a  man*?' 

"She  did  n't.  She  was  a  woman,  a  beautiful, 
nut-brown  woman,  with  a  sturdy,  health-rounded 
woman's  body  and  with  wonderful  deep-blue 
woman's  eyes. 

"  'Ain't  I  woman*?'  she  demanded.  'I  am. 
I  'm  'most  all  woman,  and  then  some.  And  the 
funny  thing  is,  though  I  'm  night-born  in  every 
thing  else,  I  'm  not  when  it  comes  to  mating.  I 
reckon  that  kind  likes  its  own  kind  best.  That 's 
the  way  it  is  with  me,  anyway,  and  has  been  all 
these  years.' 

"  'You  mean  to  tell  me — '  I  began. 

"  'Never,'  she  said,  and  her  eyes  looked  into 
mine  with  the  straightness  of  truth.  £I  had  one 
husband,  only — him  I  call  the  Ox;  and  I  reckon 
he  's  still  down  in  Juneau  running  the  hash-joint. 
Look  him  up,  if  you  ever  get  back,  and  you  '11 
find  he  's  rightly  named.' 

"And  look  him  up  I  did,  two  years  afterward. 
He  was  all  she  said — solid  and  stolid,  the  Ox — 
shuffling  around  and  waiting  on  the  tables. 

"  'You  need  a  wife  to  help  you,'  I  said. 

"  'I  had  one  once,'  was  his  answer. 

"  'Widower6?' 

25 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

"  'Yep.  She  went  loco.  She  always  said  the 
heat  of  the  cooking  would  get  her,  and  it 
did.  Pulled  a  gun  on  me  one  day  and  ran  away 
with  some  Siwashes  in  a  canoe.  Caught  a  blow 
up  the  coast  and  all  hands  drowned.' ' 

Trefethan  devoted  himself  to  his  glass  and  re 
mained  silent. 

"But  the  girl'?"  Milner  reminded  him.  "You 
left  your  story  just  as  it  was  getting  interesting, 
tender.  Did  it?" 

"It  did,"  Trefethan  replied.  "As  she  said 
herself,  she  was  savage  in  everything  except  mat 
ing,  and  then  she  wanted  her  own  kind.  She  was 
very  nice  about  it,  but  she  was  straight  to  the 
point.  She  wanted  to  marry  me. 

"  'Stranger,'  she  said,  T  want  you  bad.  You 
like  this  sort  of  life  or  you  would  n't  be  here  try 
ing  to  cross  the  Rockies  in  fall  weather.  It 's  a 
likely  spot.  You  '11  find  few  likelier.  Why  not 
settle  down?  I  '11  make  you  a  good  wife.' 

"And  then  it  was  up  to  me.  And  she  waited. 
I  don't  mind  confessing  that  I  was  sorely  tempted. 
I  was  half  in  love  with  her  as  it  was.  You  know 
I  have  never  married.  And  I  don't  mind  adding, 
looking  back  over  my  life,  that  she  is  the  only 
woman  that  ever  affected  me  that  way.  But  it 

26 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

was  too  preposterous,  the  whole  thing,  and  I  lied 
like  a  gentleman.  I  told  her  I  was  already 
married. 

"  'Is  your  wife  waiting  for  you?  she  asked. 

"I  said  yes. 

"  'And  she  loves  you? 

"I  said  yes. 

"And  that  was  all.  She  never  pressed  her 
point  .  .  .  except  once,  and  then  she  showed 
a  bit  of  fire. 

"  'All  I  've  got  to  do,'  she  said,  £is  to  give  the 
word,  and  you  don't  get  away  from  here.  If  I 
give  the  word,  you  stay  on.  .  .  .  But  I  ain't 
going  to  give  it.  I  would  n't  want  you  if  you 
did  n't  want  to  be  wanted  .  .  .  and  if  you 
did  n't  want  me.' 

"She  went  ahead  and  outfitted  me  and  started 
me  on  my  way. 

"  'It 's  a  darned  shame,  stranger,'  she  said,  at 
parting.  'I  like  your  looks,  and  I  like  you.  If 
you  ever  change  your  mind,  come  back.' 

"Now  there  was  one  thing  I  wanted  to  do,  and 
that  was  to  kiss  her  good-bye,  but  I  did  n't  know 
how  to  go  about  it  nor  how  she  would  take  it. — I 
tell  you  I  was  half  in  love  with  her.  But  she 
settled  it  herself. 

2? 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

"  'Kiss  me,'  she  said.  ' Just  something  to  go 
on  and  remember.' 

"And  we  kissed,  there  in  the  snow,  in  that  val 
ley  by  the  Rockies,  and  I  left  her  standing  by  the 
trail  and  went  on  after  my  dogs.  I  was  six  weeks 
in  crossing  over  the  pass  and  coming  down  to  the 
first  post  on  Great  Slave  Lake." 

The  brawl  of  the  streets  came  up  to  us  like  a 
distant  surf.  A  steward,  moving  noiselessly, 
brought  fresh  siphons.  And  in  the  silence 
Trefethan's  voice  fell  like  a  funeral  bell: 

"It  would  have  been  better  had  I  stayed. 
Look  at  me." 

We  saw  his  grizzled  mustache,  the  bald  spot 
on  his  head,  the  puff-sacks  under  his  eyes,  the 
sagging  cheeks,  the  heavy  dewlap,  the  general 
tiredness  and  staleness  and  fatness,  all  the  col 
lapse  and  ruin  of  a  man  who  had  once  been  strong 
but  who  had  lived  too  easily  and  too  well. 

"It's  not  too  late,  old  man,"  Bardwell  said, 
almost  in  a  whisper. 

"By  God!  I  wish  I  weren't  a  coward!"  was 
Trefethan's  answering  cry.  "I  could  go  back 
to  her.  She's  there,  now.  I  could  shape  up 
and  live  many  a  long  year  .  .  .  with 
her  ...  up  there.  To  remain  here  is  to 

28 


THE  NIGHT-BORN 

commit  suicide.  But  I  am  an  old  man — forty- 
seven — look  at  me.  The  trouble  is,"  he  lifted 
his  glass  and  glanced  at  it,  "the  trouble  is  that 
suicide  of  this  sort  is  so  easy.  I  am  soft  and 
tender.  The  thought  of  the  long  day's  travel 
with  the  dogs  appals  me ;  the  thought  of  the  keen 
frost  in  the  morning  and  of  the  frozen  sled-lash 
ings  frightens  me — " 

Automatically  the  glass  was  creeping  toward 
his  lips.  With  a  swift  surge  of  anger  he  made 
as  if  to  crash  it  down  upon  the  floor.  Next  came 
hesitancy  and  second  thought.  The  glass  moved 
upward  to  his  lips  and  paused.  He  laughed 
harshly  and  bitterly,  but  his  words  were  solemn: 
"Well,  here 's  to  the  Night-Born.  She  was  a 
wonder." 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

I  TELL  this  for  a  fact.  It  happened  in  the 
bull-ring  at  Quito.  I  sat  in  the  box  with 
John  Harned,  and  with  Maria  Valenzuela,  and 
with  Luis  Cervallos.  I  saw  it  happen.  I  saw 
it  all  from  first  to  last.  I  was  on  the  steamer 
Ecuadore  from  Panama  to  Guayaquil.  Maria 
Valenzuela  is  my  cousin.  I  have  known  her  al 
ways.  She  is  very  beautiful.  I  am  a  Spaniard 
— an  Ecuadoriano,  true,  but  I  am  descended  from 
Pedro  Patino,  who  was  one  of  Pizarro's  cap 
tains.  They  were  brave  men.  They  were 
heroes.  Did  not  Pizarro  lead  three  hundred  and 
fifty  Spanish  cavaliers  and  four  thousand  Indians 
into  the  far  Cordilleras  in  search  of  treasure? 
And  did  not  all  the  four  thousand  Indians  and 
three  hundred  of  the  brave  cavaliers  die  on  that 
vain  quest?  But  Pedro  Patino  did  not  die.  He 
it  was  that  lived  to  found  the  family  of  the 
Patino.  I  am  Ecuadoriano,  true,  but  I  am 
Spanish.  I  am  Manuel  de  Jesus  Patino.  I  own 
many  haciendas,  and  ten  thousand  Indians  are 

33 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

my  slaves,  though  the  law  says  they  are  free  men 
who  work  by  freedom  of  contract.  The  law  is  a 
funny  thing.  We  Ecuadorianos  laugh  at  it.  It 
is  our  law.  We  make  it  for  ourselves.  I  am 
Manuel  de  Jesus  Patino.  Remember  that  name. 
It  will  be  written  some  day  in  history.  There 
are  revolutions  in  Ecuador.  We  call  them  elec 
tions.  It  is  a  good  joke  is  it  not5? — what  you 
call  a  pun? 

John  Harned  was  an  American.  I  met  him 
first  at  the  Tivoli  hotel  in  Panama.  He  had 
much  money — this  I  have  heard.  He  was  going 
to  Lima,  but  he  met  Maria  Valenzuela  in  the 
Tivoli  hotel.  Maria  Valenzuela  is  my  cousin, 
and  she  is  beautiful.  It  is  true,  she  is  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  Ecuador.  But  also  is  she 
most  beautiful  in  every  country — in  Paris,  in 
Madrid,  in  New  York,  in  Vienna.  Always  do  all 
men  look  at  her,  and  John  Harned  looked  long 
at  her  at  Panama.  He  loved  her,  that  I  know 
for  a  fact.  She  was  Ecuadoriano,  true — but  she 
was  of  all  countries;  she  was  of  all  the  world. 
She  spoke  many  languages.  She  sang— ah !  like 
an  artiste.  Her  smile — wonderful,  divine.  Her 
eyes — ah!  have  I  not  seen  men  look  in  her  eyes? 
They  were  what  you  English  call  amazing.  They 

34 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

were  promises  of  paradise.  Men  drowned  them 
selves  in  her  eyes. 

Maria  Valenzuela  was  rich — richer  than  I,  who 
am  accounted  very  rich  in  Ecuador.  But  John 
Harned  did  not  care  for  her  money.  He  had  a 
heart — a  funny  heart.  He  was  a  fool.  He  did 
not  go  to  Lima.  He  left  the  steamer  at  Guaya 
quil  and  followed  her  to  Quito.  She  was  com 
ing  home  frdm  Europe  and  other  places.  I  do 
not  see  what  she  found  in  him,  but  she  liked  him. 
This  I  know  for  a  fact,  else  he  would  not  have 
followed  her  to  Quito.  She  asked  him  to  come. 
Well  do  I  remember  the  occasion.  She  said: 

"Come  to  Quito  and  I  will  show  you  the  bull 
fight — brave,  clever,  magnificent!" 

But  he  said:  "I  go  to  Lima,  not  Quito.  Such 
is  my  passage  engaged  on  the  steamer." 

"You  travel  for  pleasure — no?"  said  Maria 
Valenzuela;  and  she  looked  at  him  as  only  Maria 
Valenzuela  could  look,  her  eyes  warm  with  the 
promise. 

And  he  came.  No;  he  did  not  come  for  the 
bull-fight.  He  came  because  of  what  he  had  seen 
in  her  eyes.  Women  like  Maria  Valenzuela  are 
born  once  in  a  hundred  years.  They  are  of  no 
country  and  no  time.  They  are  what  you  call 

35 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

universal.  They  are  goddesses.  Men  fall  down 
at  their  feet.  They  play  with  men  and  run  them 
through  their  pretty  fingers  like  sand.  Cleopatra 
was  such  a  woman  they  say;  and  so  was  Circe. 
She  turned  men  into  swine.  Ha !  ha !  It  is  true 
—no? 

It  all  came  about  because  Maria  Valenzuela 
said: 

"You  English  people  are — what  shall  I  say? 
— savage — no?  You  prize-fight.  Two  men 
each  hit  the  other  with  their  fists  till  their  eyes 
are  blinded  and  their  noses  are  broken.  Hideous ! 
And  the  other  men  who  look  on  cry  out  loudly 
and  are  made  glad.  It  is  barbarous — no?" 

"But  they  are  men,"  said  John  Harned;  "and 
they  prize-fight  out  of  desire.  No  one  makes 
them  prize-fight.  They  do  it  because  they  de 
sire  it  more  than  anything  else  in  the  world." 

Maria  Valenzuela — there  was  scorn  in  her 
smile  as  she  said: 

"They  kill  each  other  often — is  it  not  so?  I 
have  read  it  in  the  papers." 

"But  the  bull,"  said  John  Harned.  "The  bull 
is  killed  many  times  in  the  bull-fight,  and  the 
bull  does  not  come  into  the  ring  out  of  desire.  It 
is  not  fair  to  the  bull.  He  is  compelled  to  fight. 

36 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

But  the  man  in  the  prize-fight — no;  he  is  not 
compelled." 

"He  is  the  more  brute  therefore,"  said  Maria 
Valenzuela.  "He  is  savage.  He  is  primitive. 
He  is  animal.  He  strikes  with  his  paws  like  a 
bear  from  a  cave,  and  he  is  ferocious.  But  the 
bull-fight — ah!  You  have  not  seen  the  bull 
fight — no?  The  toreador  is  clever.  He  must 
have  skill.  He  is  modern.  He  is  romantic.  He 
is  only  a  man,  soft  and  tender,  and  he  faces  the 
wild  bull  in  conflict.  And  he  kills  with  a  sword, 
a  slender  sword,  with  one  thrust,  so,  to  the  heart 
of  the  great  beast.  It  is  delicious.  It  makes  the 
heart  beat  to  behold — the  small  man,  the  great 
beast,  the  wide  level  sand,  the  thousands  that  look 
on  without  breath;  the  great  beast  rushes  to  the 
attack,  the  small  man  stands  like  a  statue ;  he  does 
not  move,  he  is  unafraid,  and  in  his  hand  is  the 
slender  sword  flashing  like  silver  in  the  sun; 
nearer  and  nearer  rushes  the  great  beast  with  its 
sharp  horns,  the  man  does  not  move,  and  then — 
so — the  sword  flashes,  the  thrust  is  made,  to  the 
heart,  to  the  hilt,  the  bull  falls  to  the  sand  and 
is  dead,  and  the  man  is  unhurt.  It  is  brave.  It 
is  magnificent !  Ah ! — I  could  love  the  toreador. 
But  the  man  of  the  prize-fight — he  is  the  brute, 

37 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

the  human  beast,  the  savage  primitive,  the  maniac 
that  receives  many  blows  in  his  stupid  face  and  re 
joices.  Come  to  Quito  and  I  will  show  you  the 
brave  sport,  the  sport  of  men,  the  toreador  and 
the  bull." 

But  John  Harned  did  not  go  to  Quito  for  the 
bull-fight.  He  went  because  of  Maria  Valen- 
zuela.  He  was  a  large  man,  more  broad  of 
shoulder  than  we  Ecuadorianos,  more  tall,  more 
heavy  of  limb  and  bone.  True,  he  was  larger 
even  than  most  men  of  his  own  race.  His  eyes 
were  blue,  though  I  have  seen  them  gray,  and, 
sometimes,  like  cold  steel.  His  features  were 
large,  too — not  delicate  like  ours,  and  his  jaw 
was  very  strong  to  look  at.  Also,  his  face  was 
smooth-shaven  like  a  priest's.  Why  should  a 
man  feel  shame  for  the  hair  on  his  face?  Did 
not  God  put  it  there?  Yes,  I  believe  in  God.  I 
am  not  a  pagan  like  many  of  you  English.  God 
is  good.  He  made  me  an  Ecuadoriano  with  ten 
thousand  slaves.  And  when  I  die  I  shall  go  to 
God.  Yes,  the  priests  are  right. 

But  John  Harned.  He  was  a  quiet  man.  He 
talked  always  in  a  low  voice,  and  he  never  moved 
his  hands  when  he  talked.  One  would  have 
thought  his  heart  was  a  piece  of  ice;  yet  did  he 

38 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

have  a  streak  of  warm  in  his  blood,  for  he  fol 
lowed  Maria  Valenzuela  to  Quito.  Also,  and 
for  all  that  he  talked  low  without  moving  his 
hands,  he  was  an  animal,  as  you  shall  see — the 
beast  primitive,  the  stupid,  ferocious  savage  of 
the  long  ago  that  dressed  in  wild  skins  and  lived 
in  the  caves  along  with  the  bears  and  wolves. 

Luis  Cervallos  is  my  friend,  the  best  of 
Ecuadorianos.  He  owns  three  cacao  plantations 
at  Naranjito  and  Chobo.  At  Milagro  is  his  big 
sugar  plantation.  He  has  large  haciendas  at 
Ambato  and  Latacunga,  and  down  the  coast  is 
he  interested  in  oil-wells.  Also  has  he  spent 
much  money  in  planting  rubber  along  the  Guayas. 
He  is  modern,  like  the  Yankee;  and,  like  the 
Yankee,  full  of  business.  He  has  much  money, 
but  it  is  in  many  ventures,  and  ever  he  needs  more 
money  for  new  ventures  and  for  the  old  ones. 
He  has  been  everywhere  and  seen  everything. 
When  he  was  a  very  young  man  he  was  in  the 
Yankee  military  academy  what  you  call  West 
Point.  There  was  trouble.  He  was  made  to 
resign.  He  does  not  like  Americans.  But  he 
did  like  Maria  Valenzuela,  who  was  of  his  own 
country.  Also,  he  needed  her  money  for  his  ven 
tures  and  for  his  gold  mine  in  Eastern  Ecuador 

39 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

where  the  painted  Indians  live.  I  was  his  friend. 
It  was  my  desire  that  he  should  marry  Maria 
Valenzuela.  Further,  much  of  my  money  had 
I  invested  in  his  ventures,  more  so  in  his  gold 
mine  which  was  very  rich  but  which  first  required 
the  expense  of  much  money  before  it  would  yield 
forth  its  riches.  If  Luis  Cervallos  married  Maria 
Valenzuela  I  should  have  more  money  very  im 
mediately. 

But  John  Harned  followed  Maria  Valenzuela 
to  Quito,  and  it  was  quickly  clear  to  us — to  Luis 
Cervallos  and  me — that  she  looked  upon  John 
Harned  with  great  kindness.  It  is  said  that  a 
woman  will  have  her  will,  but  this  is  a  case  not 
in  point,  for  Maria  Valenzuela  did  not  have  her 
will — at  least  not  with  John  Harned.  Perhaps 
it  would  all  have  happened  as  it  did,  even  if  Luis 
Cervallos  and  I  had  not  sat  in  the  box  that  day 
at  the  bull-ring  in  Quito.  But  this  I  know:  we 
did  sit  in  the  box  that  day.  And  I  shall  tell  you 
what  happened. 

The  four  of  us  were  in  the  one  box,  guests  of 
Luis  Cervallos.  I  was  next  to  the  Presidente's 
box.  On  the  other  side  was  the  box  of  General 
Jose  Eliceo  Salazar.  With  him  were  Joaquin 
Endara  and  Urcisino  Castillo,  both  generals,  and 

40 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

Colonel  Jacinto  Fierro  and  Captain  Baltazar  de 
Echeverria.  Only  Luis  Cervallos  had  the  posi 
tion  and  the  influence  to  get  that  box  next  to  the 
Presidente.  I  know  for  a  fact  that  the  Presidente 
himself  expressed  the  desire  to  the  management 
that  Luis  Cervallos  should  have  that  box. 

The  band  finished  playing  the  national  hymn 
of  Ecuador.  The  procession  of  the  toreadors 
was  over.  The  Presidente  nodded  to  begin. 
The  bugles  blew,  and  the  bull  dashed  in — you 
know  the  way,  excited,  bewildered,  the  darts  in 
its  shoulder  burning  like  fire,  itself  seeking  madly 
whatever  enemy  to  destroy.  The  toreadors 
hid  behind  their  shelters  and  waited.  Sud 
denly  they  appeared  forth,  the  capadors,  five  of 
them,  from  every  side,  their  colored  capes  fling 
ing  wide.  The  bull  paused  at  sight  of  such  a 
generosity  of  enemies,  unable  in  his  own  mind  to 
know  which  to  attack.  Then  advanced  one  of 
the  capadores  alone  to  meet  the  bull.  The  bull 
was  very  angry.  With  its  fore-legs  it  pawed 
the  sand  of  the  arena  till  the  dust  rose  all  about 
it.  Then  it  charged,  with  lowered  head,  straight 
for  the  lone  capador. 

It  is  always  of  interest,  the  first  charge  of 
the  first  bull.  After  a  time  it  is  natural  that 

41 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

one  should  grow  tired,  a  trifle,  that  the  keen 
ness  should  lose  its  edge.  But  that  first  charge 
of  the  first  bull !  John  Harned  was  seeing  it  for 
the  first  time,  and  he  could  not  escape  the  excite 
ment — the  sight  of  the  man,  armed  only  with  a 
piece  of  cloth,  and  of  the  bull  rushing  upon  him 
across  the  sand  with  sharp  horns,  widespreading. 

"See!"  cried  Maria  Valenzuela.  "Is  it  not 
superb?' 

John  Harned  nodded,  but  did  not  look  at  her. 
His  eyes  were  sparkling,  and  they  were  only  for 
the  bull-ring.  The  capador  stepped  to  the 
side,  with  a  twirl  of  the  cape  eluding  the 
bull  and  spreading  the  cape  on  his  own  shoul 
ders. 

"What  do  you  think4?"  asked  Maria  Valen 
zuela.  "Is  it  not  a — what-you-call — sporting 
proposition — no  ?" 

"It  is  certainly,"  said  John  Harned.  "It  is 
very  clever." 

She  clapped  her  hands  with  delight.  They 
were  little  hands.  The  audience  applauded. 
The  bull  turned  and  came  back.  Again  the  cap- 
adore  eluded  him,  throwing  the  cape  on  his  shoul 
ders,  and  again  the  audience  applauded.  Three 
times  did  this  happen.  The  capadore  was  very 

42 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

excellent.  Then  he  retired,  and  the  other  capa- 
dore  played  with  the  bull.  After  that  they  placed 
the  banderillos  in  the  bull,  in  the  shoulders,  on 
each  side  of  the  back-bone,  two  at  a  time. 
Then  stepped  forward  Ordonez,  the  chief  mata 
dor,  with  the  long  sword  and  the  scarlet  cape. 
The  bugles  blew  for  the  death.  He  is  not  so 
good  as  Matestini.  Still  he  is  good,  and  with 
one  thrust  he  dr6ve  the  sword  to  the  heart,  and 
the  bull  doubled  his  legs  under  him  and  lay  down 
and  died.  It  was  a  pretty  thrust,  clean  and  sure ; 
and  there  was  much  applause,  and  many  of  the 
common  people  threw  their  hats  into  the  ring. 
Maria  Valenzuela  clapped  her  hands  with  the 
rest,  and  John  Harned,  whose  cold  heart  was  not 
touched  by  the  event,  looked  at  her  with  curiosity. 

"You  like  it?'  he  asked. 

"Always,"  she  said,  still  clapping  her  hands. 

"From  a  little  girl,"  said  Luis  Cervallos.  "I 
remember  her  first  fight.  She  was  four  years-  old. 
She  sat  with  her  mother,  and  just  like  now  she 
clapped  her  hands.  She  is  a  proper  Spanish 
woman." 

"You  have  seen  it,"  said  Maria  Valenzuela  to 
John  Harned,  as  they  fastened  the  mules  to  the 
dead  bull  and  dragged  it  out.  "You  have  seen  the 

43 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

bull-fight  and  you  like  it — no?     What  do  you 
think?" 

"I  think  the  bull  had  no  chance,"  he  said. 
"The  bull  was  doomed  from  the  first.  The  issue 
was  not  in  doubt.  Every  one  knew,  before  the 
bull  entered  the  ring,  that  it  was  to  die.  To 
be  a  sporting  proposition,  the  issue  must  be  in 
doubt.  It  was  one  stupid  bull  who  had  never 
fought  a  man  against  five  wise  men  who  had 
fought  many  bulls.  It  would  be  possibly  a  little 
bit  fair  if  it  were  one  man  against  one  bull." 

"Or  one  man  against  five  bulls,"  said  Maria 
Valenzuela;  and  we  all  laughed,  and  Luis  Cer- 
vallos  laughed  loudest. 

"Yes,"  said  John  Harned,  "against  five  bulls, 
and  the  man,  like  the  bulls,  never  in  the  bull 
ring  before — a  man  like  yourself,  Senor  Cer- 
vallos." 

"Yet  we  Spanish  like  the  bull-fight,"  said  Luis 
Cervallos;  and  I  swear  the  devil  was  whispering 
then  in  his  ear,  telling  him  to  do  that  which  I 
shall  relate. 

"Then  must  it  be  a  cultivated  taste,"  John 
Harned  made  answer.  "We  kill  bulls  by  the 
thousand  every  day  in  Chicago,  yet  no  one  cares 
to  pay  admittance  to  see." 

44 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

"That  is  butchery,"  said  I;  "but  this — ah,  this 
is  an  art.  It  is  delicate.  It  is  fine.  It  is  rare." 

"Not  always,"  said  Luis  Cervallos.  "I  have 
seen  clumsy  matadors,  and  I  tell  you  it  is  not 
nice." 

He  shuddered,  and  his  face  betrayed  such  what- 
you-call  disgust,  that  I  knew,  then,  that  the  devil 
was  whispering  and  that  he  was  beginning  to  play 
a  part. 

"Senor  Harned  may  be  right,"  said  Luis  Cer 
vallos.  "It  may  not  be  fair  to  the  bull.  For  is 
it  not  known  to  all  of  us  that  for  twenty-four 
hours  the  bull  is  given  no  water,  and  that  im 
mediately  before  the  fight  he  is  permitted  to  drink 
his  fill?" 

"And  he  comes  into  the  ring  heavy  with 
water*?"  said  John  Harned  quickly;  and  I  saw 
that  his  eyes  were  very  gray  and  very  sharp  and 
very  cold. 

"It  is  necessary  for  the  sport,"  said  Luis  Cer 
vallos.  "Would  you  have  the  bull  so  strong 
that  he  would  kill  the  toreadors?" 

"I  would  that  he  had  a  fighting  chance,"  said 
John  Harned,  facing  the  ring  to  see  the  second 
bull  come  in. 

It  was  not  a  good  bull.  It  was  frightened.  It 
45 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

ran  around  the  ring  in  search  of  a  way  to  get  out. 
The  capadors  stepped  forth  and  flared  their  capes, 
but  he  refused  to  charge  upon  them. 

"It  is  a  stupid  bull,"  said  Maria  Valenzuela. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  John  Harned;  "but  it 
would  seem  to  me  a  wise  bull.  He  knows  he 
must  not  fight  man.  See!  He  smells  death 
there  in  the  ring." 

True.  The  bull,  pausing  where  the  last 
one  had  died,  was  smelling  the  wet  sand  and 
snorting.  Again  he  ran  around  the  ring,  with 
raised  head,  looking  at  the  faces  of  the  thousands 
that  hissed  him,  that  threw  orange-peel  at  him  and 
called  him  names.  But  the  smell  of  blood  de 
cided  him,  and  he  charged  a  capador,  so  without 
warning  that  the  man  just  escaped.  He  dropped 
his  cape  and  dodged  into  the  shelter.  The  bull 
struck  the  wall  of  the  ring  with  a  crash.  And 
John  Harned  said,  in  a  quiet  voice,  as  though 
he  talked  to  himself: 

"I  will  give  one  thousand  sucres  to  the  lazar- 
house  of  Quito  if  a  bull  kills  a  man  this  day." 

"You  like  bulls'?"  said  Maria  Valenzuela  with 
a  smile. 

"I  like  such  men  less,"  said  John  Harned.  "A 
toreador  is  not  a  brave  man.  He  surely  cannot 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

be  a  brave  man.  See,  the  bull's  tongue  is  already 
out.  He  is  tired  and  he  has  not  yet  begun." 

"It  is  the  water,"  said  Luis  Cervallos. 

"Yes,  it  is  the  water,"  said  John  Harned. 
"Would  it  not  be  safer  to  hamstring  the  bull  be 
fore  he  comes  on$" 

Maria  Valenzuela  was  made  angry  by  this  sneer 
in  John  Harned's  words.  But  Luis  Cervallos 
smiled  so  that  only  I  could  see  him,  and  then 
it  broke  upon  my  mind  surely  the  game  he  was 
playing.  He  and  I  were  to  be  banderilleros. 
The  big  American  bull  was  there  in  the  box  with 
us.  We  were  to  stick  the  darts  in  him  till  he 
became  angry,  and  then  there  might  be  no  mar 
riage  with  Maria  Valenzuela.  It  was  a  good 
sport.  And  the  spirit  of  bull-fighters  was  in  our 
blood. 

The  bull  was  now  angry  and  excited.  The 
capadors  had  great  game  with  him.  He  was 
very  quick,  and  sometimes  he  turned  with  such 
sharpness  that  his  hind  legs  lost  their  footing  and 
he  plowed  the  sand  with  his  quarter.  But  he 
charged  always  the  flung  capes  and  committed 
no  harm. 

"He  has  no  chance,"  said  John  Harned.  "He 
is  fighting  wind." 

47 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

"He  thinks  the  cape  is  his  enemy,"  explained 
Maria  Valenzuela.  "See  how  cleverly  the  capa- 
dor  deceives  him." 

"It  is  his  nature  to  be  deceived,"  said  John 
Harned.  "Wherefore  he  is  doomed  to  fight  wind. 
The  toreadors  know  it,  the  audience  knows  it,  you 
know  it,  I  know  it — we  all  know  from  the  first 
that  he  will  fight  wind.  He  only  does  not  know 
it.  It  is  his  stupid  beast-nature.  He  has  no 
chance." 

"It  is  very  simple,"  said  Luis  Cervallos.  "The 
bull  shuts  his  eyes  when  he  charges.  There 
fore—" 

"The  man  steps  out  of  the  way  and  the  bull 
rushes  by,"  John  Harned  interrupted. 

"Yes,"  said  Luis  Cervallos;  "that  is  it. 
The  bull  shuts  his  eyes,  and  the  man  knows 
it." 

"But  cows  do  not  shut  their  eyes,"  said  John 
Harned.  "I  know  a  cow  at  home  that  is  a  Jer 
sey  and  gives  milk,  that  would  whip  the  whole 
gang  of  them." 

"But  the  toreadors  do  not  fight  cows,"  said  I. 

"They  are  afraid  to  fight  cows,"  said  John 
Harned. 

"Yes,"  said  Luis  Cervallos;  "they  are  afraid  to 

48 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

fight  cows.  There  would  be  no  sport  in  killing 
toreadors." 

"There  would  be  some  sport,"  said  John 
Harned,  "if  a  toreador  were  killed  once  in  a  while. 
When  I  become  an  old  man,  and  mayhap  a 
cripple,  and  should  I  need  to  make  a  living  and 
be  unable  to  do  hard  work,  then  would  I  become 
a  bull-fighter.  It  is  a  light  vocation  for  elderly 
gentlemen  and  pensioners." 

"But  see !"  said  Maria  Valenzuela,  as  the  bull 
charged  bravely  and  the  capador  eluded  it  with 
a  fling  of  his  cape.  "It  requires  skill  so  to  avoid 
the  beast." 

"True,"  said  John  Harned.  "But  believe  me, 
it  requires  a  thousand  times  more  skill  to  avoid 
the  many  and  quick  punches  of  a  prize-fighter 
who  keeps  his  eyes  open  and  strikes  with  intelli 
gence.  Furthermore,  this  bull  does  not  want  to 
fight.  Behold,  he  runs  away." 

It  was  not  a  good  bull,  for  again  it  ran  around 
the  ring,  seeking  to  find  a  way  out. 

"Yet  these  bulls  are  sometimes  the  most  dan 
gerous,"  said  Luis  Cervallos.  "It  can  never  be 
known  what  they  will  do  next.  They  are  wise. 
They  are  half  cow.  The  bull-fighters  never  like 
them. — See!  He  has  turned!" 

49 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

Once  again,  baffled  and  made  angry  by  the 
walls  of  the  ring  that  would  not  let  him  out,  the 
bull  was  attacking  his  enemies  valiantly. 

"His  tongue  is  hanging  out,"  said  John 
Harned.  "First,  they  fill  him  with  water. 
Then  they  tire  him  out,  one  man  and  then  an 
other,  persuading  him  to  exhaust  himself  by  fight 
ing  wind.  While  some  tire  him,  others  rest. 
But  the  bull  they  never  let  rest.  Afterward, 
when  he  is  quite  tired  and  no  longer  quick,  the 
matador  sticks  the  sword  into  him." 

The  time  had  now  come  for  the  banderillos. 
Three  times  one  of  the  fighters  endeavored  to 
place  the  darts,  and  three  times  did  he  fail.  He 
but  stung  the  bull  and  maddened  it.  The 
banderillos  must  go  in,  you  know,  two  at  a  time, 
into  the  shoulders,  on  each  side  the  backbone  and 
close  to  it.  If  but  one  be  placed,  it  is  a  failure. 
The  crowd  hissed  and  called  for  Ordonez.  And 
then  Ordonez  did  a  great  thing.  Four  times  he 
stood  forth,  and  four  times,  at  the  first  attempt, 
he  stuck  in  the  banderillos,  so  that  eight  of  them, 
well  placed,  stood  out  of  the  back  of  the  bull  at 
one  time.  The  crowd  went  mad,  and  a  rain  of 
hats  and  money  fell  upon  the  sand  of  the  ring. 

And  just  then  the  bull  charged  unexpectedly 
50 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

one  of  the  capadors.  The  man  slipped  and  lost 
his  head.  The  bull  caught  him — fortunately, 
between  his  wide  horns.  And  while  the  audience 
watched,  breathless  and  silent,  John  Harned 
stood  up  and  yelled  with  gladness.  Alone,  in 
that  hush  of  all  of  us,  John  Harned  yelled.  And 
he  yelled  for  the  bull.  As  you  see  yourself,  John 
Harned  wanted  the  man  killed.  His  was  a 
brutal  heart.  This  bad  conduct  made  those  an 
gry  that  sat  in  the  box  of  General  Salazar,  and 
they  cried  out  against  John  Harned.  And 
Urcisino  Castillo  told  him  to  his  face  that  he  was 
a  dog  of  a  Gringo  and  other  things.  Only  it  was 
in  Spanish,  and  John  Harned  did  not  under 
stand.  He  stood  and  yelled,  perhaps  for  the 
time  of  ten  seconds,  when  the  bull  was  enticed 
into  charging  the  other  capadors  and  the  man 
arose  unhurt. 

"The  bull  has  no  chance,"  John  Harned  said 
with  sadness  as  he  sat  down.  "The  man  was  un 
injured.  They  fooled  the  bull  away  from  him." 
Then  he  turned  to  Maria  Valenzuela  and  said: 
"I  beg  your  pardon.  I  was  excited." 

She  smiled  and  in  reproof  tapped  his  arm  with 
her  fan. 

"It  is  your  first  bull-fight,"  she  said.  "After 
51 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

you  have  seen  more  you  will  not  cry  for  the  death 
of  the  man.  You  Americans,  you  see,  are  more 
brutal  than  we.  It  is  because  of  your  prize-fight 
ing.  We  come  only  to  see  the  bull  killed." 

"But  I  would  the  bull  had  some  chance,"  he 
answered.  "Doubtless,  in  time,  I  shall  cease  to 
be  annoyed  by  the  men  who  take  advantage  of 
the  bull." 

The  bugles  blew  for  the  death.  Ordonez 
stood  forth  with  the  sword  and  the  scarlet  cloth. 
But  the  bull  had  changed  again,  and  did  not  want 
to  fight.  Ordonez  stamped  his  foot  in  the  sand, 
and  cried  out,  and  waved  the  scarlet  cloth.  Then 
the  bull  charged,  but  without  heart.  There  was 
no  weight  to  the  charge.  It  was  a  poor  thrust. 
The  sword  struck  a  bone  and  bent.  Ordonez 
took  a  fresh  sword.  The  bull,  again  stung  to 
fight,  charged  once  more.  Five  times  Ordonez 
essayed  the  thrust,  and  each  time  the  sword 
went  but  part  way  in  or  struck  bone.  The  sixth 
time,  the  sword  went  in  to  the  hilt.  But  it 
was  a  bad  thrust.  The  sword  missed  the  heart 
and  stuck  out  half  a  yard  through  the  ribs  on  the 
opposite  side.  The  audience  hissed  the  matador. 
I  glanced  at  John  Harned.  He  sat  silent,  with 
out  movement;  but  I  could  see  his  teeth  were  set, 

52 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

and  his  hands  were  clenched  tight  on  the  railing 
of  the  box. 

All  fight  was  now  out  of  the  bull,  and,  though 
it  was  no  vital  thrust,  he  trotted  lamely  what  of 
the  sword  that  stuck  through  him,  in  one  side  and 
out  the  other.  He  ran  away  from  the  matador 
and  the  capadors,  and  circled  the  edge  of  the  ring, 
looking  up  at  the  many  faces. 

"He  is  saying:  Tor  God's  sake  let  me  out  of 
this;  I  don't  want  to  fight,'  "  said  John  Harned. 

That  was  all.  He  said  no  more,  but  sat  and 
watched,  though  sometimes  he  looked  sideways  at 
Maria  Valenzuela  to  see  how  she  took  it.  She 
was  angry  with  the  matador.  He  was  awkward, 
and  she  had  desired  a  clever  exhibition. 

The  bull  was  now  very  tired,  and  weak  from 
loss  of  blood,  though  far  from  dying.  He 
walked  slowly  around  the  wall  of  the  ring,  seek 
ing  a  way  out.  He  would  not  charge.  He  had 
had  enough.  But  he  must  be  killed.  There  is 
a  place,  in  the  neck  of  a  bull  behind  the  horns, 
where  the  cord  of  the  spine  is  unprotected  and 
where  a  short  stab  will  immediately  kill.  Ordonez 
stepped  in  front  of  the  bull  and  lowered  his  scar 
let  cloth  to  the  ground.  The  bull  would  not 
charge.  He  stood  still  and  smelled  the  cloth, 

53 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

lowering  his  head  to  do  so.  Ordonez  stabbed  be 
tween  the  horns  at  the  spot  in  the  neck.  The  bull 
jerked  his  head  up.  The  stab  had  missed. 
Then  the  bull  watched  the  sword.  When  Or 
donez  moved  the  cloth  on  the  ground,  the  bull 
forgot  the  sword  and  lowered  his  head  to  smell 
the  cloth.  Again  Ordonez  stabbed,  and  again  he 
failed.  He  tried  many  times.  It  was  stupid. 
And  John  Harned  said  nothing.  At  last  a  stab 
went  home,  and  the  bull  fell  to  the  sand,  dead 
immediately,  and  the  mules  were  made  fast  and 
he  was  dragged  out. 

"The  Gringos  say  it  is  a  cruel  sport — not"  said 
Luis  Cervallos.  "That  it  is  not  humane.  That 
it  is  bad  for  the  bull.  No?' 

"No,"  said  John  Harned.  "The  bull  does  not 
count  for  much.  It  is  bad  for  those  that  look 
on.  It  is  degrading  to  those  that  look  on.  It 
teaches  them  to  delight  in  animal  suffering.  It 
is  cowardly  for  five  men  to  fight  one  stupid  bull. 
Therefore  those  that  look  on  learn  to  be  cowards. 
The  bull  dies,  but  those  that  look  on  live  and  the 
lesson  is  learned.  The  bravery  of  men  is  not 
nourished  by  scenes  of  cowardice." 

Maria  Valenzuela  said  nothing.  Neither  did 
54 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

she  look  at  him.  But  she  heard  every  word  and 
her  cheeks  were  white  with  anger.  She  looked 
out  across  the  ring  and  fanned  herself,  but  I  saw 
that  her  hand  trembled.  Nor  did  John  Harned 
look  at  her.  He  went  on  as  though  she  were  not 
there.  He,  too,  was  angry,  coldly  angry. 

"It  is  the  cowardly  sport  of  a  cowardly  people," 
he  said. 

"Ah,"  said  Luis  Cervallos  softly,  "you  think 
you  understand  us." 

"I  understand  now  the  Spanish  Inquisition," 
said  John  Harned.  "It  must  have  been  more 
delightful  than  bull-fighting." 

Luis  Cervallos  smiled  but  said  nothing.  He 
glanced  at  Maria  Valenzuela,  and  knew  that  the 
bull-fight  in  the  box  was  won.  Never  would  she 
have  further  to  do  with  the  Gringo  who  spoke 
such  words.  But  neither  Luis  Cervallos  nor  I  was 
prepared  for  the  outcome  of  the  day.  I  fear  we 
do  not  understand  the  Gringos.  How  were  we 
to  know  that  John  Harned,  who  was  so  coldly 
angry,  should  go  suddenly  mad?  But  mad  he 
did  go,  as  you  shall  see.  The  bull  did  not  count 
for  much— he  said  so  himself.  Then  why  should 
the  horse  count  for  so  much?  That  I  cannot  un- 

55 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

derstand.  The  mind  of  John  Harned  lacked 
logic.  That  is  the  only  explanation. 

"It  is  not  usual  to  have  horses  in  the  bull-ring 
at  Quito,"  said  Luis  Cervallos,  looking  up  from 
the  program.  "In  Spain  they  always  have  them. 
But  to-day,  by  special  permission  we  shall  have 
them.  When  the  next  bull  comes  on  there  will 
be  horses  and  picadors — you  know,  the  men  who 
carry  lances  and  ride  the  horses." 

"The  bull  is  doomed  from  the  first,"  said  John 
Harned.  "Are  the  horses  then  likewise  doomed4?" 

"They  are  blindfolded  so  that  they  may  not 
see  the  bull,"  said  Luis  Cervallos.  "I  have  seen 
many  horses  killed.  It  is  a  brave  sight." 

"I  have  seen  the  bull  slaughtered,"  said  John 
Harned.  "I  will  now  see  the  horse  slaughtered, 
so  that  I  may  understand  more  fully  the  fine 
points  of  this  noble  sport." 

"They  are  old  horses,"  said  Luis  Cervallos, 
"that  are  not  good  for  anything  else." 

"I  see,"  said  John  Harned. 

The  third  bull  came  on,  and  soon  against  it 
were  both  capadors  and  picadors.  One  picador 
took  his  stand  directly  below  us.  I  agree,  it  was 
a  thin  and  aged  horse  he  rode,  a  bag  of  bones 
covered  with  mangy  hide. 

56 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

"It  is  a  marvel  that  the  poor  brute  can  hold 
up  the  weight  of  the  rider,"  said  John  Harned. 
"And  now  that  the  horse  fights  the  bull,  what 
weapons  has  it*?" 

"The  horse  does  not  fight  the  bull,"  said  Luis 
Cervallos. 

"Oh,"  said  John  Harned,  "then  is  the  horse 
there  to  be  gored?  That  must  be  why  it  is  blind 
folded,  so  that  it  shall  not  see  the  bull  coming  to 
gore  it." 

"Not  quite  so,"  said  I.  "The  lance  of 
the  picador  is  to  keep  the  bull  from  goring  the 
horse." 

"Then  are  horses  rarely  gored?"  asked  John 
Harned. 

"No,"  said  Luis  Cervallos.  "I  have  seen,  at 
Seville,  eighteen  horses  killed  in  one  day,  and 
the  people  clamored  for  more  horses." 

"Were  they  blindfolded  like  this  horse?"  asked 
John  Harned. 

"Yes,"  said  Luis  Cervallos. 

After  that  we  talked  no  more,  but  watched 
the  fight.  And  John  Harned  was  going  mad  all 
the  time,  and  we  did  not  know.  The  bull  re 
fused  to  charge  the  horse.  And  the  horse  stood 
still,  and  because  it  could  not  see  it  did  not  know 

57 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

that  the  capadors  were  trying  to  make  the  bull 
charge  upon  it.  The  capadors  teased  the  bull 
with  their  capes,  and  when  it  charged  them  they 
ran  toward  the  horse  and  into  their  shelters.  At 
last  the  bull  was  well  angry,  and  it  saw  the  horse 
before  it. 

"The  horse  does  not  know,  the  horse  does 
not  know,"  John  Harned  whispered  like  to 
himself,  unaware  that  he  voiced  his  thought 
aloud. 

The  bull  charged,  and  of  course  the  horse  knew 
nothing  till  the  picador  failed  and  the  horse  found 
himself  impaled  on  the  bull's  horns  from  beneath. 
The  bull  was  magnificently  strong.  The  sight 
of  its  strength  was  splendid  to  see.  It  lifted  the 
horse  clear  into  the  air;  and  as  the  horse  fell  to 
its  side  on  the  ground  the  picador  landed  on  his 
feet  and  escaped,  while  the  capadors  lured  the 
bull  away.  The  horse  was  emptied  of  its  essen 
tial  organs.  Yet  did  it  rise  to  its  feet  screaming. 
It  was  the  scream  of  the  horse  that  did  it,  that 
made  John  Harned  completely  mad;  for  he,  too, 
started  to  rise  to  his  feet.  I  heard  him  curse  low 
and  deep.  He  never  took  his  eyes  from  the 
horse,  which,  still  screaming,  strove  to  run,  but 
fell  down  instead  and  rolled  on  its  back  so  that 

58 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

all  its  four  legs  were  kicking  in  the  air.  Then 
the  bull  charged  it  and  gored  it  again  and  again 
until  it  was  dead. 

John  Harned  was  now  on  his  feet.  His  eyes 
were  no  longer  cold  like  steel.  They  were  blue 
flames.  He  looked  at  Maria  Valenzuela,  and  she 
looked  at  him,  and  in  his  face  was  a  great  loath 
ing.  The  moment  of  his  madness  was  upon  him. 
Everybody  was  looking,  now  that  the  horse  was 
dead;  and  John  Harned  was  a  large  man  and 
easy  to  be  seen. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Luis  Cervallos,  "or  you  will 
make  a  fool  of  yourself." 

John  Harned  replied  nothing.  He  struck  out 
his  fist.  He  smote  Luis  Cervallos  in  the  face 
so  that  he  fell  like  a  dead  man  across  the  chairs 
and  did  not  rise  again.  He  saw  nothing  of  what 
followed.  But  I  saw  much.  Urcisino  Castillo, 
leaning  forward  from  the  next  box,  with  his  cane 
struck  John  Harned  full  across  the  face.  And 
John  Harned  smote  him  with  his  fist  so  that  in 
falling  he  overthrew  General  Salazar.  John 
Harned  was  now  in  what-you-call  Berserker  rage 
— no*?  The  beast  primitive  in  him  was  loose  and 
roaring — the  beast  primitive  of  the  holes  and 
caves  of  the  long  ago. 

59 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

"You  came  for  a  bull-fight,"  I  heard  him  say, 
"and  by  God  I'll  show  you  a  man-fight!" 

It  was  a  fight.  The  soldiers  guarding  the 
Presidente's  box  leaped  across,  but  from  one  of 
them  he  took  a  rifle  and  beat  them  on  their  heads 
with  it.  From  the  other  box  Colonel  Jacinto 
Fierro  was  shooting  at  him  with  a  revolver.  The 
first  shot  killed  a  soldier.  This  I  know  for  a 
fact.  I  saw  it.  But  the  second  shot  struck  John 
Harned  in  the  side.  Whereupon  he  swore,  and 
with  a  lunge  drove  the  bayonet  of  his  rifle  into 
Colonel  Jacinto  Fierro's  body.  It  was  horrible 
to  behold.  The  Americans  and  the  English  are 
a  brutal  race.  They  sneer  at  our  bull-fighting, 
yet  do  they  delight  in  the  shedding  of  blood. 
More  men  were  killed  that  day  because  of  John 
Harned  than  were  ever  killed  in  all  the  history 
of  the  bull-ring  of  Quito,  yes,  and  of  Guayaquil 
and  all  Ecuador. 

It  was  the  scream  of  the  horse  that  did  it.  Yet 
why  did  not  John  Harned  go  mad  when  the  bull 
was  killed?  A  beast  is  a  beast,  be  it  bull  or 
horse.  John  Harned  was  mad.  There  is  no 
other  explanation.  He  was  blood-mad,  a  beast 
himself.  I  leave  it  to  your  judgment.  Which 
is  worse — the  goring  of  the  horse  by  the  bull, 

60 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

or  the  goring  of  Colonel  Jacinto  Fierro  by  the 
bayonet  in  the  hands  of  John  Harned  *?  And 
John  Harned  gored  others  with  that  bayonet. 
He  was  full  of  devils.  He  fought  with  many 
bullets  in  him,  and  he  was  hard  to  kill.  And 
Maria  Valenzuela  was  a  brave  woman.  Unlike 
the  other  women,  she  did  not  cry  out  nor  faint. 
She  sat  still  in  her  box,  gazing  out  across  the 
bull-ring.  Her  face  was  white  and  she  fanned 
herself,  but  she  never  looked  around. 

From  all  sides  came  the  soldiers  and  officers 
and  the  common  people  bravely  to  subdue  the 
mad  Gringo.  It  is  true — the  cry  went  up  from 
the  crowd  to  kill  all  the  Gringos.  It  is  an  old 
cry  in  Latin-American  countries,  what  of  the  dis 
like  for  the  Gringos  and  their  uncouth  ways.  It 
is  true,  the  cry  went  up.  But  the  brave 
Ecuadorianos  killed  only  John  Harned,  and  first 
he  killed  seven  of  them.  Besides,  there  were  many 
hurt.  I  have  seen  many  bull-fights,  but  never 
have  I  seen  anything  so  abominable  as  the  scene 
in  the  boxes  when  the  fight  was  over.  It  was  like 
a  field  of  battle.  The  dead  lay  around  every 
where,  while  the  wounded  sobbed  and  groaned 
and  some  of  them  died.  One  man,  whom  John 
Harned  had  thrust  through  the  belly  with  the 

61 


THE  MADNESS  OF  JOHN  HARNED 

bayonet,  clutched  at  himself  with  both  his  hands 
and  screamed.  I  tell  you  for  a  fact  it  was  more 
terrible  than  the  screaming  of  a  thousand  horses. 
No,  Maria  Valenzuela  did  not  marry  Luis 
Cervallos.  I  am  sorry  for  that.  He  was  my 
friend,  and  much  of  my  money  was  invested  in 
his  ventures.  It  was  five  weeks  before  the  sur 
geons  took  the  bandages  from  his  face.  And 
there  is  a  scar  there  to  this  day,  on  the  cheek, 
under  the  eye.  Yet  John  Harned  struck  him 
but  once  and  struck  him  only  with  his  naked  fist. 
Maria  Valenzuela  is  in  Austria  now.  It  is  said 
she  is  to  marry  an  Arch-Duke  or  some  high  noble 
man.  I  do  not  know.  I  think  she  liked  John 
Harned  before  he  followed  her  to  Quito  to  see  the 
bull-fight.  But  why  the  horse*?  That  is  what 
I  desire  to  know.  Why  should  he  watch  the  bull 
and  say  that  it  did  not  count,  and  then  go  im 
mediately  and  most  horribly  mad  because  a  horse 
screamed1?  There  is  no  understanding  the 
Gringos.  They  are  barbarians. 


62 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS 
YOUNG 

HE  was  a  very  quiet,  self-possessed  sort  of 
man,  sitting  a  moment  on  top  of  the 
wall  to  sound  the  damp  darkness  for  warn 
ings  of  the  dangers  it  might  conceal.  But  the 
plummet  of  his  hearing  brought  nothing  to  him 
save  the  moaning  of  wind  through  invisible  trees 
and  the  rustling  of  leaves  on  swaying  branches. 
A  heavy  fog  drifted  and  drove  before  the  wind, 
and  though  he  could  not  see  this  fog,  the  wet  of 
it  blew  upon  his  face,  and  the  wall  on  which  he 
sat  was  wet. 

Without  noise  he  had  climbed  to  the  top  of 
the  wall  from  the  outside,  and  without  noise  he 
dropped  to  the  ground  on  the  inside.  From  his 
pocket  he  drew  an  electric  night-stick,  but  he 
did  not  use  it.  Dark  as  the  way  was,  he  was  not 
anxious  for  light.  Carrying  the  night-stick  in  his 
hand,  his  finger  on  the  button,  he  advanced 
through  the  darkness.  The  ground  was  velvety 
and  springy  to  his  feet,  being  carpeted  with  dead 
pine-needles  and  leaves  and  mold  which  evi 
dently  had  been  undisturbed  for  years.  Leaves 

65 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

and  branches  brushed  against  his  body,  but  so 
dark  was  it  that  he  could  not  avoid  them.  Soon 
he  walked  with  his  hand  stretched  out  gropingly 
before  him,  and  more  than  once  the  hand  fetched 
up  against  the  solid  trunks  of  massive  trees.  All 
about  him  he  knew  were  these  trees;  he  sensed 
the  loom  of  them  everywhere ;  and  he  experienced 
a  strange  feeling  of  microscopic  smallness  in  the 
midst  of  great  bulks  leaning  toward  him  to  crush 
him.  Beyond,  he  knew,  was  the  house,  and  he 
expected  to  find  some  trail  or  winding  path  that 
would  lead  easily  to  it. 

Once,  he  found  himself  trapped.  On  every 
side  he  groped  against  trees  and  branches,  or 
blundered  into  thickets  of  underbrush,  until  there 
seemed  no  way  out.  Then  he  turned  on  his  light, 
circumspectly,  directing  its  rays  to  the  ground 
at  his  feet.  Slowly  and  carefully  he  moved  it 
about  him,  the  white  brightness  showing  in  sharp 
detail  all  the  obstacles  to  his  progress.  He  saw 
an  opening  between  huge-trunked  trees,  and  ad 
vanced  through  it,  putting  out  the  light  and  tread 
ing  on  dry  footing  as  yet  protected  from  the  drip 
of  the  fog  by  the  dense  foliage  overhead.  His 
sense  of  direction  was  good,  and  he  knew  he  was 
going  toward  the  house. 

66 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

And  then  the  thing  happened — the  thing  un 
thinkable  and  unexpected.  His  descending  foot 
came  down  upon  something  that  was  soft  and 
alive,  and  that  arose  with  a  snort  under  the  weight 
of  his  body.  He  sprang  clear,  and  crouched  for 
another  spring,  anywhere,  tense  and  expectant, 
keyed  for  the  onslaught  of  the  unknown.  He 
waited  a  moment,  wondering  what  manner  of 
animal  it  was  that  had  arisen  from  under  his  foot 
and  that  now  made  no  sound  nor  movement  and 
that  must  be  crouching  and  waiting  just  as  tensely 
and  expectantly  as  he.  The  strain  became  un 
bearable.  Holding  the  night-stick  before  him,  he 
pressed  the  button,  saw,  and  screamed  aloud  in 
terror.  He  was  prepared  for  anything,  from  a 
frightened  calf  or  fawn  to  a  belligerent  lion,  but 
he  was  not  prepared  for  what  he  saw.  In  that 
instant  his  tiny  searchlight,  sharp  and  white,  had 
shown  him  what  a  thousand  years  would  not  en 
able  him  to  forget — a  man,  huge  and  blond,  yel 
low-haired  and  yellow-bearded,  naked  except 
for  soft-tanned  moccasins  and  what  seemed 
a  goat-skin  about  his  middle.  Arms  and  legs 
were  bare,  as  were  his  shoulders  and  most  of  his 
chest.  The  skin  was  smooth  and  hairless, 
but  browned  by  sun  and  wind,  while  under 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

it  heavy  muscles  were  knotted  like  fat  snakes. 

Still,  this  alone,  unexpected  as  it  well  was,  was 
not  what  had  made  the  man  scream  out.  What 
had  caused  his  terror  was  the  unspeakable  ferocity 
of  the  face,  the  wild-animal  glare  of  the  blue  eyes 
scarcely  dazzled  by  the  light,  the  pine-needles 
matted  and  clinging  in  the  beard  and  hair,  and 
the  whole  formidable  body  crouched  and  in  the 
act  of  springing  at  him.  Practically  in  the  in 
stant  he  saw  all  this,  and  while  his  scream  still 
rang,  the  thing  leaped,  he  flung  his  night-stick  full 
at  it,  and  threw  himself  to  the  ground.  He  felt 
its  feet  and  shins  strike  against  his  ribs,  and  he 
bounded  up  and  away  while  the  thing  itself 
hurled  onward  in  a  heavy  crashing  fall  into  the 
underbrush. 

As  the  noise  of  the  fall  ceased,  the  man  stopped 
and  on  hands  and  knees  waited.  He  could  hear 
the  thing  moving  about,  searching  for  him,  and  he 
was  afraid  to  advertise  his  location  by  attempting 
further  flight.  He  knew  that  inevitably  he 
would  crackle  the  underbrush  and  be  pursued. 
Once  he  drew  out  his  revolver,  then  changed  his 
mind.  He  had  recovered  his  composure  and 
hoped  to  get  away  without  noise.  Several  times 
he  heard  the  thing  beating  up  the  thickets  for 

68 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

him,  and  there  were  moments  when  it,  too,  re 
mained  still  and  listened.  This  gave  an  idea  to 
the  man.  One  of  his  hands  was  resting  on  a 
chunk  of  dead  wood.  Carefully,  first  feeling 
about  him  in  the  darkness  to  know  that  the  full 
swing  of  his  arm  was  clear,  he  raised  the  chunk 
of  wood  and  threw  it.  It  was  not  a  large  piece, 
and  it  went  far,  landing  noisily  in  a  bush.  He 
heard  the  thing  bound  into  the  bush,  and  at  the 
same  time  himself  crawled  steadily  away.  And 
on  hands  and  knees,  slowly  and  cautiously,  he 
crawled  on,  till  his  knees  were  wet  on  the  soggy 
mold.  When  he  listened  he  heard  naught  but 
the  moaning  wind  and  the  drip-drip  of  the  fog 
from  the  branches.  Never  abating  his  caution, 
he  stood  erect  and  went  on  to  the  stone  wall,  over 
which  he  climbed  and  dropped  down  to  the  road 
outside. 

Feeling  his  way  in  a  clump  of  bushes,  he  drew 
out  a  bicycle  and  prepared  to  mount.  He  was  in 
the  act  of  driving  the  gear  around  with  his  foot 
for  the  purpose  of  getting  the  opposite  pedal  in 
position,  when  he  heard  the  thud  of  a  heavy  body 
that  landed  lightly  and  evidently  on  its  feet.  He 
did  not  wait  for  more,  but  ran,  with  hands  on 
the  handles  of  his  bicycle,  until  he  was  able  to 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

vault  astride  the  saddle,  catch  the  pedals,  and 
start  a  spurt.  Behind  he  could  hear  the  quick 
thud-thud  of  feet  on  the  dust  of  the  road,  but  he 
drew  away  from  it  and  lost  it. 

Unfortunately,  he  had  started  away  from  the 
direction  of  town  and  was  heading  higher  up  into 
the  hills.  He  knew  that  on  this  particular  road 
there  were  no  cross  roads.  The  only  way  back 
was  past  that  terror,  and  he  could  not  steel  him 
self  to  face  it.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour, 
finding  himself  on  an  ever  increasing  grade,  he 
dismounted.  For  still  greater  safety,  leaving  the 
wheel  by  the  roadside,  he  climbed  through  a  fence 
into  what  he  decided  was  a  hillside  pasture, 
spread  a  newspaper  on  the  ground,  and  sat  down. 

"Gosh !"  he  said  aloud,  mopping  the  sweat  and 
fog  from  his  face. 

And  "Gosh!"  he  said  once  again,  while  rolling 
a  cigarette  and  as  he  pondered  the  problem  of 
getting  back. 

But  he  made  no  attempt  to  go  back.  He  was 
resolved  not  to  face  that  road  in  the  dark,  and 
with  head  bowed  on  knees,  he  dozed,  waiting  for 
daylight. 

How  long  afterward  he  did  not  know,  he  was 
awakened  by  the  yapping  bark  of  a  young  coyote. 

70 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

As  he  looked  about  and  located  it  on  the  brow 
of  the  hill  behind  him,  he  noted  the  change  that 
had  come  over  the  face  of  the  night.  The  fog 
was  gone;  the  stars  and  moon  were  out;  even  the 
wind  had  died  down.  It  had  transformed  into 
a  balmy  California  summer  night.  He  tried  to 
doze  again,  but  the  yap  of  the  coyote  disturbed 
him.  Half  asleep,  he  heard  a  wild  and  eery 
chant.  Looking  about  him,  he  noticed  that  the 
coyote  had  ceased  its  noise  and  was  running  away 
along  the  crest  of  the  hill,  and  behind  it,  in  full 
pursuit,  no  longer  chanting,  ran  the  naked  crea 
ture  he  had  encountered  in  the  garden.  It  was 
a  young  coyote,  and  it  was  being  overtaken  when 
the  chase  passed  from  view.  The  man  trembled 
as  with  a  chill  as  he  started  to  his  feet,  clambered 
over  the  fence,  and  mounted  his  wheel.  But  it 
was  his  chance  and  he  knew  it.  The  terror  was 
no  longer  between  him  and  Mill  Valley. 

He  sped  at  a  breakneck  rate  down  the  hill,  but 
in  the  turn  at  the  bottom,  in  the  deep  shadows, 
he  encountered  a  chuck-hole  and  pitched  headlong 
over  the  handle  bar. 

"It 's  sure  not  my  night,"  he  muttered,  as  he 
examined  the  broken  fork  of  the  machine. 

Shouldering  the  useless  wheel,  he  trudged  on. 

71 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

In  time  he  came  to  the  stone  wall,  and,  half  dis 
believing  his  experience,  he  sought  in  the  road 
for  tracks,  and  found  them — moccasin  tracks, 
large  ones,  deep-bitten  into  the  dust  at  the  toes. 
It  was  while  bending  over  them,  examining,  that 
again  he  heard  the  eery  chant.  He  had  seen  the 
thing  pursue  the  coyote,  and  he  knew  he  had  no 
chance  on  a  straight  run.  He  did  not  attempt  it, 
contenting  himself  with  hiding  in  the  shadows 
on  the  off  side  of  the  road. 

And  again  he  saw  the  thing  that  was  like  a 
naked  man,  running  swiftly  and  lightly  and  sing 
ing  as  it  ran.  Opposite  him  it  paused,  and  his 
heart  stood  still.  But  instead  of  coming  toward 
his  hiding-place,  it  leaped  into  the  air,  caught  the 
branch  of  a  roadside  tree,  and  swung  swiftly  up 
ward,  from  limb  to  limb,  like  an  ape.  It  swung 
across  the  wall,  and  a  dozen  feet  above  the  top, 
into  the  branches  of  another  tree,  and  dropped 
out  of  sight  to  the  ground.  The  man  waited  a 
few  wondering  minutes,  then  started  on. 


II 

Dave  Slotter  leaned  belligerently  against  the 
desk  that  barred  the  way  to  the  private  office  of 

72 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

James  Ward,  senior  partner  of  the  firm  of  Ward, 
Knowles  &  Co.  Dave  was  angry.  Every  one 
in  the  outer  office  had  looked  him  over  suspi 
ciously,  and  the  man  who  faced  him  was  exces 
sively  suspicious. 

"You  just  tell  Mr.  Ward  it's  important,"  he 
urged. 

"I  tell  you  he  is  dictating  and  cannot  be  dis 
turbed,"  was  the  answer.  "Come  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow  will  be  too  late.  ,You  just  trot 
along  and  tell  Mr.  Ward  it 's  a  matter  of  life 
and  death." 

The  secretary  hesitated  and  Dave  seized  the 
advantage. 

"You  just  tell  him  I  was  across  the  bay  in  Mill 
Valley  last  night,  and  that  I  want  to  put  him 
wise  to  something." 

"What  name4?"  was  the  query. 

"Never  mind  the  name.     He  don't  know  me." 

When  Dave  was  shown  into  the  private  office, 
he  was  still  in  the  belligerent  frame  of  mind,  but 
when  he  saw  a  large  fair  man  whirl  in  a  revolv 
ing  chair  from  dictating  to  a  stenographer  to  face 
him,  Dave's  demeanor  abruptly  changed.  He 
did  not  know  why  it  changed,  and  he  was  secretly 
angry  with  himself. 

73 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

"You  are  Mr.  Ward?"  Dave  asked  with  a 
fatuousness  that  still  further  irritated  him.  He 
had  never  intended  it  at  all. 

"Yes,"  came  the  answer.  "And  who  are 
you?' 

"Harry  Bancroft,"  Dave  lied.  "You  don't 
know  me,  and  my  name  don't  matter." 

"You  sent  in  word  that  you  were  in  Mill  Val 
ley  last  night?" 

"You  live  there,  don't  you?"  Dave  countered, 
looking  suspiciously  at  the  stenographer. 

"Yes.  What  do  you  mean  to  see  me  about? 
I  am  very  busy." 

"I  'd  like  to  see  you  alone,  sir." 

Mr.  Ward  gave  him  a  quick,  penetrating  look, 
hesitated,  then  made  up  his  mind. 

"That  will  do  for  a  few  minutes,  Miss  Potter." 

The  girl  arose,  gathered  her  notes  together,  and 
passed  out.  Dave  looked  at  Mr.  James  Ward 
wonderingly,  until  that  gentleman  broke  his  train 
of  inchoate  thought. 

"Well?" 

"I  was  over  in  Mill  Valley  last  night,"  Dave 
began  confusedly. 

"I  've  heard  that  before.  What  do  you 
want?" 

74 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

And  Dave  proceeded  in  the  face  of  a  growing 
conviction  that  was  unbelievable. 

"I  was  at  your  house,  or  in  the  grounds,  I 
mean." 

"What  were  you  doing  there?" 

"I  came  to  break  in,"  Dave  answered  in  all 
frankness.  "I  heard  you  lived  all  alone  with  a 
Chinaman  for  cook,  and  it  looked  good  to  me. 
Only  I  did  n't  break  in.  Something  happened 
that  prevented.  That 's  why  I  'm  here.  I  come 
to  warn  you.  I  found  a  wild  man  loose  in  your 
grounds — a  regular  devil.  He  could  pull  a  guy 
like  me  to  pieces.  He  gave  me  the  run  of  my  life. 
He  don't  wear  any  clothes  to  speak  of,  he  climbs 
trees  like  a  monkey,  and  he  runs  like  a  deer.  I 
saw  him  chasing  a  coyote,  and  the  last  I  saw  of  it, 
by  God,  he  was  gaining  on  it." 

Dave  paused  and  looked  for  the  effect  that 
would  follow  his  words.  But  no  effect  came. 
James  Ward  was  quietly  curious,  and  that  was 
all. 

"Very  remarkable,  very  remarkable,"  he  mur 
mured.  "A  wild  man,  you  say.  Why  have  you 
come  to  tell  me?" 

"To  warn  you  of  your  danger.  I  'm  some 
thing  of  a  hard  proposition  myself,  but  I  don't 

75 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

believe  in  killing  people  .  .  .  that  is,  un 
necessarily.  I  realized  that  you  was  in  danger. 
I  thought  I  'd  warn  you.  Honest,  that 's  the 
game.  Of  course,  if  you  wanted  to  give  me  any 
thing  for  my  trouble,  I  Jd  take  it.  That  was  in 
my  mind,  too.  But  I  don't  care  whether  you 
give  me  anything  or  not.  I  've  warned  you  any 
way,  and  done  my  duty." 

Mr.  Ward  meditated  and  drummed  on  the  sur 
face  of  his  desk.  Dave  noticed  they  were  large, 
powerful  hands,  withal  well-cared  for  despite 
their  dark  sunburn.  Also,  he  noted  what  had  al 
ready  caught  his  eye  before — a  tiny  strip  of  flesh- 
colored  jcourtpl  aster  on  the  forehead  over  one  eye. 
And  still  the  thought  that  forced  itself  into  his 
mind  was  unbelievable. 

Mr.  Ward  took  a  wallet  from  his  inside  coat 
pocket,  drew  out  a  greenback,  and  passed  it  to 
Dave,  who  noted  as  he  pocketed  it  that  it  was  for 
twenty  dollars. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Ward,  indicating  that 
the  interview  was  at  an  end.  "I  shall  have  the 
matter  investigated.  A  wild  man  running  loose 
is  dangerous." 

But  so  quiet  a  man  was  Mr.  Ward,  that  Dave's 
courage  returned.  Besides,  a  new  theory  had 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

suggested  itself.  The  wild  man  was  evidently 
Mr.  Ward's  brother,  a  lunatic  privately  confined. 
Dave  had  heard  of  such  things.  Perhaps  Mr. 
Ward  wanted  it  kept  quiet.  That  was  why  he 
had  given  him  the  twenty  dollars. 

"Say,"  Dave  began,  "now  I  come  to  think  of 
it  that  wild  man  looked  a  lot  like  you — " 

That  was  as  far  as  Dave  got,  for  at  that  mo 
ment  he  witnessed  a  transformation  and  found 
himself  gazing  into  the  same  unspeakably  fero 
cious  blue  eyes  of  the  night  before,  at  the  same 
clutching  talon-like  hands,  and  at  the  same 
formidable  bulk  in  the  act  of  springing  upon  him. 
But  this  time  Dave  had  no  night-stick  to  throw, 
and  he  was  caught  by  the  biceps  of  both  arms  in 
a  grip  so  terrific  that  it  made  him  groan  with  pain. 
He  saw  the  large  white  teeth  exposed,  for  all  the 
world  as  a  dog's  about  to  bite.  Mr.  Ward's 
beard  brushed  his  face  as  the  teeth  went  in  for  the 
grip  on  his  throat.  But  the  bite  was  not  given. 
Instead,  Dave  felt  the  other's  body  stiffen  as  with 
an  iron  restraint,  and  then  he  was  flung  aside, 
without  effort  but  with  such  force  that  only  the 
wall  stopped  his  momentum  and  dropped  him 
gasping  to  the  floor. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  coming  here  and  try- 

77 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

ing  to  blackmail  me?"  Mr.  Ward  was  snarling  at 
him.  "Here,  give  me  back  that  money." 

Dave  passed  the  bill  back  without  a  word. 

"I  thought  you  came  here  with  good  intentions. 
I  know  you  now.  Let  me  see  and  hear  no  more 
of  you,  or  I  '11  put  you  in  prison  where  you  be 
long.  Do  you  understand*?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  Dave  gasped. 

"Then  go." 

And  Dave  went,  without  further  word,  both 
his  biceps  aching  intolerably  from  the  bruise  of 
that  tremendous  grip.  As  his  hand  rested  on 
the  door  knob,  he  was  stopped. 

"You  were  lucky,"  Mr.  Ward  was  saying,  and 
Dave  noted  that  his  face  and  eyes  were  cruel  and 
gloating  and  proud.  "You  were  lucky.  Had 
I  wanted,  I  could  have  torn  your  muscles  out  of 
your  arms  and  thrown  them  in  the  waste  basket 
there." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Dave;  and  absolute  conviction 
vibrated  in  his  voice. 

He  opened  the  door  and  passed  out.  The 
secretary  looked  at  him  interrogatively. 

"Gosh!"  was  all  Dave  vouchsafed,  and  with 
this  utterance  passed  out  of  the  offices  and  the 
story. 

78 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

III 

James  G.  Ward  was  forty  years  of  age,  a  suc 
cessful  business  man,  and  very  unhappy.  For 
forty  years  he  had  vainly  tried  to  solve  a  prob 
lem  that  was  really  himself  and  that  with  in 
creasing  years  became  more  and  more  a  woeful 
affliction.  In  himself  he  was  two  men,  and,  chron 
ologically  speaking,  these  men  were  several  thou 
sand  years  or  so  apart.  He  had  studied  the 
question  of  dual  personality  probably  more  pro 
foundly  than  any  half  dozen  of  the  leading  spe 
cialists  in  that  intricate  and  mysterious  psycholog 
ical  field.  In  himself  he  was  a  different  case 
from  any  that  had  been  recorded.  Even  the 
most  fanciful  flights  of  the  fiction-writers  had 
not  quite  hit  upon  him.  He  was  not  a  Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde,  nor  was  he  like  the  un 
fortunate  young  man  in  Kipling's  "Greatest 
Story  in  the  World."  His  two  personalities 
were  so  mixed  that  they  were  practically  aware  of 
themselves  and  of  each  other  all  the  time. 

His  one  self  was  that  of  a  man  whose  rearing 
and  education  were  modern  and  who  had  lived 
through  the  latter  part  of  the  nineteenth  century 
and  well  into  the  first  decade  of  the  twentieth. 

79 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

His  other  self  he  had  located  as  a  savage  and  a 
barbarian  living  under  the  primitive  conditions 
of  several  thousand  years  before.  But  which  self 
was  he,  and  which  was  the  other,  he  could  never 
tell.  For  he  was  both  selves,  and  both  selves 
all  the  time.  Very  rarely  indeed  did  it  happen 
that  one  self  did  not  know  what  the  other  was 
doing.  Another  thing  was  that  he  had  no  visions 
nor  memories  of  the  past  in  which  that  early  self 
had  lived.  That  early  self  lived  in  the  present; 
but  while  it  lived  in  the  present,  it  was  under  the 
compulsion  to  live  the  way  of  life  that  must  have 
been  in  that  distant  past. 

In  his  childhood  he  had  been  a  problem  to  his 
father  and  mother,  and  to  the  family  doctors, 
though  never  had  they  come  within  a  thousand 
miles  of  hitting  upon  the  clue  to  his  erratic  con 
duct.  Thus,  they  could  not  understand  his  ex 
cessive  somnolence  in  the  forenoon,  nor  his  ex 
cessive  activity  at  night.  When  they  found  him 
wandering  along  the  hallways  at  night,  or  climb 
ing  over  giddy  roofs,  or  running  in  the  hills,  they 
decided  he  was  a  somnambulist.  In  reality  he  was 
wide-eyed  awake  and  merely  under  the  night- 
roaming  compulsion  of  his  early  self.  Ques 
tioned  by  an  obtuse  medico,  he  once  told  the  truth 

80 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

and  suffered  the  ignominy  of  having  the  revela 
tion  contemptuously  labeled  and  dismissed  as 
"dreams." 

The  point  was,  that  as  twilight  and  evening 
came  on  he  became  wakeful.  The  four  walls  of 
a  room  were  an  irk  and  a  restraint.  He  heard 
a  thousand  voices  whispering  to  him  through  the 
darkness.  The  night  called  to  him,  for  he  was, 
for  that  period  of  the  twenty-four  hours,  es 
sentially  a  night-prowler.  But  nobody  under 
stood,  and  never  again  did  he  attempt  to  explain. 
They  classified  him  as  a  sleep-walker  and  took 
precautions  accordingly — precautions  that  very 
often  were  futile.  As  his  childhood  advanced, 
he  grew  more  cunning,  so  that  the  major  portion 
of  all  his  nights  were  spent  in  the  open  at  realiz 
ing  his  other  self.  As  a  result,  he  slept  in  the 
forenoons.  Morning  studies  and  schools  were 
impossible,  and  it  was  discovered  that  only  in 
the  afternoons,  under  private  teachers,  could  he 
be  taught  anything.  Thus  was  his  modern  self 
educated  and  developed. 

But  a  problem,  as  a  child,  he  ever  remained. 
He  was  known  as  a  little  demon,  of  insensate 
cruelty  and  viciousness.  The  family  medicos 
privately  adjudged  him  a  mental  monstrosity  and 

81 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

a  degenerate.  Such  few  boy  companions  as  he 
had,  hailed  him  as  a  wonder,  though  they  were 
all  afraid  of  him.  He  could  outclimb,  outswim, 
outrun,  outdevil  any  of  them;  while  none  dared 
fight  with  him.  He  was  too  terribly  strong,  too 
madly  furious. 

When  nine  years  of  age  he  ran  away  to  the 
hills,  where  he  flourished,  night-prowling,  for 
seven  weeks  before  he  was  discovered  and  brought 
home.  The  marvel  was  how  he  had  managed  to 
subsist  and  keep  in  condition  during  that  time. 
They  did  not  know,  and  he  never  told  them,  of 
the  rabbits  he  had  killed,  of  the  quail,  young  and 
old,  he  had  captured  and  devoured,  of  the  farm 
ers'  chicken-roosts  he  had  raided,  nor  of  the 
cave-lair  he  had  made  and  carpeted  with  dry 
leaves  and  grasses  and  in  which  he  had  slept  in 
warmth  and  comfort  through  the  forenoons  of 
many  days. 

At  college  he  was  notorious  for  his  sleepiness 
and  stupidity  during  the  morning  lectures  and  for 
his  brilliance  in  the  afternoon.  By  collateral 
reading  and  by  borrowing  the  notebook  of  his 
fellow  students  he  managed  to  scrape  through 
the  detestable  morning  courses,  while  his  after 
noon  courses  were  triumphs.  In  football  he 

82 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

proved  a  giant  and  a  terror,  and,  in  almost  every 
form  of  track  athletics,  save  for  strange  Berserker 
rages  that  were  sometimes  displayed,  he  could  be 
depended  upon  to  win.  But  his  fellows  were 
afraid  to  box  with  him,  and  he  signalized  his  last 
wrestling  bout  by  sinking  his  teeth  into  the 
shoulder  of  his  opponent. 

After  college,  his  father,  in  despair,  sent  him 
among  the  cow-punchers  of  a  Wyoming  ranch. 
Three  months  later  the  doughty  cowmen  con 
fessed  he  was  too  much  for  them  and  telegraphed 
his  father  to  come  and  take  the  wild  man  away. 
Also,  when  the  father  arrived  to  take  him  away, 
the  cowmen  allowed  that  they  would  vastly  pre 
fer  chumming  with  howling  cannibals,  gibbering 
lunatics,  cavorting  gorillas,  grizzly  bears,  and 
man-eating  tigers  than  with  this  particular 
young  college  product  with  hair  parted  in  the 
middle. 

There  was  one  exception  to  the  lack  of  memory 
of  the  life  of  his  early  self,  and  that  was  language. 
By  some  quirk  of  atavism,  a  certain  portion  of 
that  early  self's  language  had  come  down  to  him 
as  a  racial  memory.  In  moments  of  happiness, 
exaltation,  or  battle,  he  was  prone  to  burst  out  in 
wild  barbaric  songs  or  chants.  It  was  by  this 

83 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

means  that  he  located  in  time  and  space  that 
strayed  half  of  him  who  should  have  been  dead 
and  dust  for  thousands  of  years.  He  sang,  once, 
and  deliberately,  several  of  the  ancient  chants  in 
the  presence  of  Professor  Wertz,  who  gave 
courses  in  old  Saxon  and  who  was  a  philologist 
of  repute  and  passion.  At  the  first  one,  the  pro 
fessor  pricked  up  his  ears  and  demanded  to  know 
what  mongrel  tongue  or  hog-German  it  was. 
When  the  second  chant  was  rendered,  the  profes 
sor  was  highly  excited.  James  Ward  then  con 
cluded  the  performance  by  giving  a  song  that 
always  irresistibly  rushed  to  his  lips  when  he  was 
engaged  in  fierce  struggling  or  fighting.  Then  it 
was  that  Professor  Wertz  proclaimed  it  no  hog- 
German,  but  early  German,  or  early  Teuton,  of 
a  date  that  must  far  precede  anything  that  had 
ever  been  discovered  and  handed  down  by  the 
scholars.  So  early  was  it  that  it  was  beyond  him ; 
yet  it  was  filled  with  haunting  reminiscences  of 
word-forms  he  knew  and  which  his  trained  intui 
tion  told  him  were  true  and  real.  He  demanded 
the  source  of  the  songs,  and  asked  to  borrow  the 
precious  book  that  contained  them.  Also,  he  de 
manded  to  know  why  young  Ward  had  always 
posed  as  being  profoundly  ignorant  of  the  Ger- 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

man  language.  And  Ward  could  neither  explain 
his  ignorance  nor  lend  the  book.  Whereupon, 
after  pleadings  and  entreaties  that  extended 
through  weeks,  Professor  Wertz  took  a  dislike  to 
the  young  man,  believed  him  a  liar,  and  classified 
him  as  a  man  of  monstrous  selfishness  for  not  giv 
ing  him  a  glimpse  of  this  wonderful  screed  that 
was  older  than  the  oldest  any  philologist  had 
ever  known  or  dreamed. 

But  little  good  did  it  do  this  much-mixed  young 
man  to  know  that  half  of  him  was  late  American^ 
and  the  other  half  early  Teuton.  Nevertheless, 
the  late  American  in  him  was  no  weakling,  and  he 
(if  he  were  a  he  and  had  a  shred  of  existence  out 
side  of  these  two)  compelled  an  adjustment  or 
compromise  between  his  one  self  that  was  a  night- 
prowling  savage  that  kept  his  other  self  sleepy  of 
mornings,  and  that  other  self  that  was  cultured 
and  refined  and  that  wanted  to  be  normal  and 
live  and  love  and  prosecute  business  like  other 
people.  The  afternoons  and  early  evenings  he 
gave  to  the  one,  the  nights  to  the  other;  the  fore 
noons  and  parts  of  the  nights  were  devoted  to 
sleep  for  the  twain.  But  in  the  mornings  he 
slept  in  bed  like  a  civilized  man.  In  the  night 
time  he  slept  like  a  wild  animal,  as  he  had  slept 

85 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

the  night  Dave  Slotter  stepped  on  him  in  the 
woods. 

Persuading  his  father  to  advance  the  capital, 
he  went  into  business,  and  keen  and  successful 
business  he  made  of  it,  devoting  his  afternoons 
whole-souled  to  it,  while  his  partner  devoted  the 
mornings.  The  early  evenings  he  spent  socially, 
but,  as  the  hour  grew  to  nine  or  ten,  an  irresistible 
restlessness  overcame  him  and  he  disappeared 
from  the  haunts  of  men  until  the  next  afternoon. 
Friends  and  acquaintances  thought  that  he  spent 
much  of  his  time  in  sport.  And  they  were  right, 
though  they  never  would  have  dreamed  of  the  na 
ture  of  the  sport,  even  if  they  had  seen  him  run 
ning  coyotes  in  night-chases  over  the  hills  of  Mill 
Valley.  Neither  were  the  schooner  captains  be 
lieved  when  they  reported  seeing,  on  cold  winter 
mornings,  a  man  swimming  in  the  tide-rips  of 
Raccoon  Straits  or  in  the  swift  currents  between 
Goat  Island  and  Angel  Island  miles  from  shore. 

In  the  bungalow  at  Mill  Valley  he  lived  alone, 
save  for  Lee  Sing,  the  Chinese  cook  and  factotum, 
who  knew  much  about  the  strangeness  of  his  mas 
ter,  who  was  paid  well  for  saying  nothing,  and 
who  never  did  say  anything.  After  the  satisfac 
tion  of  his  nights,  a  morning's  sleep,  and  a  break- 

86 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

fast  of  Lee  Sing's,  James  Ward  crossed  the  bay 
to  San  Francisco  on  a  midday  ferryboat  and  went 
to  the  club  and  on  to  his  office,  as  normal  and 
conventional  a  man  of  business  as  could  be  found 
in  the  city.  But  as  the  evening  lengthened,  the 
night  called  to  him.  There  came  a  quickening  of 
all  his  perceptions  and  a  restlessness.  His  hear 
ing  was  suddenly  acute;  the  myriad  night-noises 
told  him  a  luring  and  familiar  story;  and,  if 
alone,  he  would  begin  to  pace  up  and  down  the 
narrow  room  like  any  caged  animal  from  the  wild. 
Once,  he  ventured  to  fall  in  love.  He  never 
permitted  himself  that  diversion  again.  He  was 
afraid.  And  for  many  a  day  the  young  lady, 
scared  at  least  out  of  a  portion  of  her  young  lady 
hood,  bore  on  her  arms  and  shoulders  and  wrists 
divers  black-and-blue  bruises — tokens  of  caresses 
which  he  had  bestowed  in  all  fond  gentleness  but 
too  late  at  night.  There  was  the  mistake.  Had 
he  ventured  love-making  in  the  afternoon,  all 
would  have  been  well,  for  it  would  have  been  as 
the  quiet  gentleman  that  he  would  have  made 
love — but  at  night  it  was  the  uncouth,  wife-steal 
ing  savage  of  the  dark  German  forests.  Out  of 
his  wisdom,  he  decided  that  afternoon  love-mak 
ing  could  be  prosecuted  successfully;  but  out  of 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

the  same  wisdom  he  was  convinced  that  marriage 
would  prove  a  ghastly  failure.  He  found  it  ap 
palling  to  imagine  being  married  and  encounter 
ing  his  wife  after  dark. 

So  he  had  eschewed  all  love-making,  regulated 
his  dual  life,  cleaned  up  a  million  in  business, 
fought  shy  of  match-making  mamas  and  bright- 
and  eager-eyed  young  ladies  of  various  ages,  met 
Lilian  Gersdale  and  made  it  a  rigid  observance 
never  to  see  her  later  than  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  run  of  nights  after  his  coyotes,  and  slept 
in  forest  lairs — and  through  it  all  had  kept  his 
secret  save  for  Lee  Sing  .  .  .  and  now, 
Dave  Slotter.  It  was  the  latter' s  discovery  of 
both  his  selves  that  frightened  him.  In  spite  of 
the  counter  fright  he  had  given  the  burglar,  the 
latter  might  talk.  And  even  if  he  did  not,  sooner 
or  later  he  would  be  found  out  by  some  one  else. 

Thus  it  was  that  James  Ward  made  a  fresh 
and  heroic  effort  to  control  the  Teutonic  barba 
rian  that  was  half  of  him.  So  well  did  he  make 
it  a  point  to  see  Lilian  in  the  afternoons  and  early 
evenings,  that  the  time  came  when  she  accepted 
him  for  better  or  worse,  and  when  he  prayed 
privily  and  fervently  that  it  was  not  for  worse. 
During  this  period  no  prize-fighter  ever  trained 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

more  harshly  and  faithfully  for  a  contest  than  he 
trained  to  subdue  the  wild  savage  in  him. 
Among  other  things,  he  strove  to  exhaust  himself 
during  the  day,  so  that  sleep  would  render  him 
deaf  to  the  call  of  the  night.  He  took  a  vacation 
from  the  office  and  went  on  long  hunting  trips, 
following  the  deer  through  the  most  inaccessible 
and  rugged  country  he  could  find — and  always  in 
the  daytime.  Night  found  him  indoors  and  tired. 
At  home  he  installed  a  score  of  exercise  machines, 
and  where  other  men  might  go  through  a  particu 
lar  movement  ten  times,  he  went  hundreds. 
Also,  as  a  compromise,  he  built  a  sleeping  porch 
on  the  second  story.  Here  he  at  least  breathed 
the  blessed  night  air.  Double  screens  prevented 
him  from  escaping  into  the  woods,  and  each  night 
Lee  Sing  locked  him  in  and  each  morning  let  him 
out. 

The  time  came,  in  the  month  of  August,  when 
he  engaged  additional  servants  to  assist  Lee  Sing 
and  dared  a  house  party  in  his  Mill  Valley  bunga 
low.  Lilian,  her  mother  and  brother,  and  half 
a  dozen  mutual  friends,  were  the  guests.  For 
two  days  and  nights  all  went  well.  And  on  the 
third  night,  playing  bridge  till  eleven  o'clock,  he 
had  reason  to  be  proud  of  himself.  His  rest- 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

lessness  he  successfully  hid,  but  as  luck  would 
have  it,  Lilian  Gersdale  was  his  opponent  on  his 
right.  She  was  a  frail  delicate  flower  of  a 
woman,  and  in  his  night-mood  her  very  frailty 
incensed  him.  Not  that  he  loved  her  less,  but 
that  he  felt  almost  irresistibly  impelled  to  reach 
out  and  paw  and  maul  her.  Especially  was  this 
true  when  she  was  engaged  in  playing  a  winning 
hand  against  him. 

He  had  one  of  the  deer-hounds  brought  in,  and, 
when  it  seemed  he  must  fly  to  pieces  with  the  ten 
sion,  a  caressing  hand  laid  on  the  animal  brought 
him  relief.  These  contacts  with  the  hairy  coat 
gave  him  instant  easement  and  enabled  him  to 
play  out  the  evening.  Nor  did  anyone  guess  the 
terrible  struggle  their  host  was  making,  the  while 
he  laughed  so  carelessly  and  played  so  keenly  and 
deliberately. 

When  they  separated  for  the  night,  he  saw  to 
it  that  he  parted  from  Lilian  in  the  presence  of 
the  others.  Once  on  his  sleeping  porch,  and 
safely  locked  in,  he  doubled  and  tripled  and  even 
quadrupled  his  exercises  until,  exhausted,  he  lay 
down  on  the  couch  to  woo  sleep  and  to  ponder 
two  problems  that  especially  troubled  him.  One 
was  this  matter  of  exercise.  It  was  a  paradox. 

90 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

The  more  he  exercised  in  this  excessive  fashion, 
the  stronger  he  became.  While  it  was  true  that 
he  thus  quite  tired  out  his  night-running  Teutonic 
self,  it  seemed  that  he  was  merely  setting  back 
the  fatal  day  when  his  strength  would  be  too 
much  for  him  and  overpower  him,  and  then  it 
would  be  a  strength  more  terrible  than  he  had 
yet  known.  The  other  problem  was  that  of  his 
marriage  and  of  the  stratagems  he  must  employ 
in  order  to  avoid  his  wife  after  dark.  And  thus 
fruitlessly  pondering,  he  fell  asleep. 

Now,  where  the  huge  grizzly  bear  came  from 
that  night  was  long  a  mystery,  while  the  people 
of  the  Springs  Brothers'  Circus,  showing  at 
Sausalito,  searched  long  and  vainly  for  "Big  Ben, 
the  Biggest  Grizzly  in  Captivity."  But  Big  Ben 
escaped,  and,  out  of  the  mazes  of  half  a  thou 
sand  bungalows  and  country  estates,  selected  the 
grounds  of  James  J.  Ward  for  visitation.  The 
first  Mr.  Ward  knew  was  when  he  found  himself 
on  his  feet,  quivering  and  tense,  a  surge  of  battle 
in  his  breast  and  on  his  lips  the  old  war-chant. 
From  without  came  a  wild  baying  and  bellowing 
of  the  hounds.  And  sharp  as  a  knife-thrust 
through  the  pandemonium  came  the  agony  of  a 
stricken  dog — his  dog,  he  knew. 

91 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

Not  stopping  for  slippers,  pajama-clad,  he 
burst  through  the  door  Lee  Sing  had  so  carefully 
locked,  and  sped  down  the  stairs  and  out  into  the 
night.  As  his  naked  feet  .struck  the  graveled 
driveway,  he  stopped  abruptly,  reached  under  the 
steps  to  a  hiding-place  he  knew  well,  and  pulled 
forth  a  huge  knotty  club — his  old  companion  on 
many  a  mad  night  adventure  on  the  hills.  The 
frantic  hullabaloo  of  the  dogs  was  coming  nearer, 
and,  swinging  the  club,  he  sprang  straight  into  the 
thickets  to  meet  it. 

The  aroused  household  assembled  on  the  wide 
veranda.  Somebody  turned  on  the  electric 
lights,  but  they  could  see  nothing  but  one  an 
other's  frightened  faces.  Beyond  the  brightly 
illuminated  driveway  the  trees  formed  a  wall  of 
impenetrable  blackness.  Yet  somewhere  in  that 
blackness  a  terrible  struggle  was  going  on. 
There  was  an  infernal  outcry  of  animals,  a  great 
snarling  and  growling,  the  sound  of  blows  being 
struck,  and  a  smashing  and  crashing  of  under 
brush  by  heavy  bodies. 

The  tide  of  battle  swept  out  from  among  the 
trees  and  upon  the  driveway  just  beneath  the  on 
lookers.  Then  they  saw.  Mrs.  Gersdale  cried 
out  and  clung  fainting  to  her  son.  Lilian.,  clutch- 

92 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

ing  the  railing  so  spasmodically  that  a  bruising 
hurt  was  left  in  her  finger-ends  for  days,  gazed 
horror-stricken  at  a  yellow-haired,  wild-eyed  giant 
whom  she  recognized  as  the  man  who  was  to  be 
her  husband.  He  was  swinging  a  great  club, 
and  fighting  furiously  and  calmly  with  a  shaggy 
monster  that  was  bigger  than  any  bear  she  had 
ever  seen.  One  rip  of  the  beast's  claws  had 
dragged  away  Ward's  pajama-coat  and  streaked 
his  flesh  with  blood. 

While  most  of  Lilian  Gersdale's  fright  was 
for  the  man  beloved,  there  was  a  large  portion  of 
it  due  to  the  man  himself.  Never  had  she 
dreamed  so  formidable  and  magnificent  a  savage 
lurked  under  the  starched  shirt  and  conventional 
garb  of  her  betrothed.  And  never  had  she  had 
any  conception  of  how  a  man  battled.  Such  a 
battle  was  certainly  not  modern;  nor  was  she 
there  beholding  a  modern  man,  though  she  did  not 
know  it.  For  this  was  not  Mr.  James  J.  Ward, 
the  San  Francisco  business  man,  but  one,  un 
named  and  unknown,  a  crude,  rude  savage  crea 
ture  who,  by  some  freak  of  chance,  lived  again 
after  thrice  a  thousand  years. 

The  hounds,  ever  maintaining  their  mad  up 
roar,  circled  about  the  fight,  or  dashed  in  and  out, 

93 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

distracting  the  bear.  When  the  animal  turned  to 
meet  such  flanking  assaults,  the  man  leaped  in 
and  the  club  came  down.  Angered  afresh  by 
every  such  blow,  the  bear  would  rush,  and  the 
man,  leaping  and  skipping,  avoiding  the  dogs, 
went  backwards  or  circled  to  one  side  or  the 
other.  Whereupon  the  dogs,  taking  advantage 
of  the  opening,  would  again  spring  in  and  draw 
the  animal's  wrath  to  them. 

The  end  came  suddenly.  Whirling,  the 
grizzly  caught  a  hound  with  a  wide  sweeping 
cuff  that  sent  the  brute,  its  ribs  caved  in  and  its 
back  broken,  hurtling  twenty  feet.  Then  the 
human  brute  went  mad.  A  foaming  rage  flecked 
the  lips  that  parted  with  a  wild  inarticulate  cry, 
as  it  sprang  in,  swung  the  club  mightily  in  both 
hands,  and  brought  it  down  full  on  the  head  of 
the  uprearing  grizzly.  Not  even  the  skull  of  a 
grizzly  could  withstand  the  crushing  force  of  such 
a  blow,  and  the  animal  went  down  to  meet  the 
worrying  of  the  hounds.  And  through  their 
scurrying  leaped  the  man,  squarely  upon  the  body, 
where,  in  the  white  electric  light,  resting  on  his 
club,  he  chanted  a  triumph  in  an  unknown  tongue 
— a  song  so  ancient  that  Professor  Wertz  would 
have  given  ten  years  of  his  life  for  it. 

94 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

His  guests  rushed  to  possess  him  and  acclaim 
him,  but  James  Ward,  suddenly  looking  out  of 
the  eyes  of  the  early  Teuton,  saw  the  fair  frail 
Twentieth  Century  girl  he  loved,  and  felt  some 
thing  snap  in  his  brain.  He  staggered  weakly 
toward  her,  dropped  the  club,  and  nearly  fell. 
Something  had  gone  wrong  with  him.  Inside  his 
brain  was  an  intolerable  agony.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  soul  of  him  were  flying  asunder.  Following 
the  excited  gaze  of  the  others,  he  glanced  back 
and  saw  the  carcass  of  the  bear.  The  sight  filled 
him  with  fear.  He  uttered  a  cry  and  would  have 
fled,  had  they  not  restrained  him  and  led  him 
into  the  bungalow. 

James  J  .Ward  is  still  at  the  head  of  the  firm 
of  Ward,  Knowles  &  Co.  But  he  no  longer  lives 
in  the  country ;  nor  does  he  run  of  nights  after  the 
coyotes  under  the  moon.  The  early  Teuton  in 
him  died  the  night  of  the  Mill  Valley  fight  with 
the  bear.  James  J.  Ward  is  now  wholly  James 
J.  Ward,  and  he  shares  no  part  of  his  being  with 
any  vagabond  anachronism  from  the  younger 
world.  And  so  wholly  is  James  J.  Ward  mod 
ern,  that  he  knows  in  all  its  bitter  fullness  the  curse 
of  civilized  fear.  He  is  now  afraid  of  the  dark, 

95 


WHEN  THE  WORLD  WAS  YOUNG 

and  night  in  the  forest  is  to  him  a  thing  of  abys 
mal  terror.  His  city  house  is  of  the  spick  and  span 
order,  and  he  evinces  a  great  interest  in  burglar- 
proof  devices.  His  home  is  a  tangle  of  electric 
wires,  and  after  bed-time  a  guest  can  scarcely 
breathe  without  setting  off  an  alarm.  Also,  he 
had  invented  a  combination  keyless  door-lock  that 
travelers  may  carry  in  their  vest  pockets  and  ap 
ply  immediately  and  successfully  under  all  cir 
cumstances.  But  his  wife  does  not  deem  him  a 
coward.  She  knows  better.  And,  like  any  hero, 
he  is  content  to  rest  on  his  laurels.  His  bravery 
is  never  questioned  by  those  of  his  friends  who  are 
aware  of  the  Mill  Valley  episode. 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

BARTER  WATSON,  a  current  magazine  un- 
V-/  der  his  arm,  strolled  slowly  along,  gazing 
about  him  curiously.  Twenty  years  had  elapsed 
since  he  had  been  on  this  particular  street, 
and  the  changes  were  great  and  stupefying.  This 
Western  city  of  three  hundred  thousand  souls  had 
contained  but  thirty  thousand,  when,  as  a  boy,  he 
had  been  wont  to  ramble  along  its  streets.  In 
those  days  the  street  he  was  now  on  had  been  a 
quiet  residence  street  in  the  respectable  working- 
class  quarter.  On  this  late  afternoon  he  found 
that  it  had  been  submerged  by  a  vast  and  vicious 
tenderloin.  Chinese  and  Japanese  shops  and 
dens  abounded,  all  confusedly  intermingled  with 
low  white  resorts  and  boozing  kens.  This  quiet 
street  of  his  youth  had  become  the  toughest  quar 
ter  of  the  city. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was  half-past  five. 
It  was  the  slack  time  of  the  day  in  such  a  region, 
as  he  well  knew,  yet  he  was  curious  to  see.  In  all 
his  score  of  years  of  wandering  and  studying  so- 

99 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

cial  conditions  over  the  world,  he  had  carried  with 
him  the  memory  of  his  old  town  as  a  sweet  and 
wholesome  place.  The  metamorphosis  he  now  be 
held  was  startling.  He  certainly  must  continue 
his  stroll  and  glimpse  the  infamy  to  which  his 
town  had  descended. 

Another  thing:  Carter  Watson  had  a  keen 
social  and  civic  consciousness.  Independently 
wealthy,  he  had  been  loath  to  dissipate  his  ener 
gies  in  the  pink  teas  and  freak  dinners  of  society, 
while  actresses,  race-horses,  and  kindred  diversions 
had  left  him  cold.  He  had  the  ethical  bee  in  his 
bonnet  and  was  a  reformer  of  no  mean  pretension, 
though  his  work  had  been  mainly  in  the  line  of 
contributions  to  the  heavier  reviews  and  quarter 
lies  and  to  the  publication  over  his  name  of 
brightly,  cleverly  written  books  on  the  working 
classes  and  the  slum-dwellers.  Among  the 
twenty-seven  to  his  credit  occurred  titles  such  as, 
"If  Christ  Came  to  New  Orleans,"  "  The  Worked- 
out  Worker,"  "Tenement  Reform  in  Berlin," 
"The  Rural  Slums  of  England,"  "The  people  of 
the  East  Side,"  "Reform  Versus  Revolution," 
"The  University  Settlement  as  a  Hot  Bed  of 
Radicalism"  and  "The  Cave  Man  of  Civili 


zation." 


100 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE 

But  Carter  WatsonSvas  neither  morbid  nor  fa 
natic.  He  did  not  lose  his  head  over  the  horrors 
he  encountered,  studied,  and  exposed.  No  hair- 
brained  enthusiasm  branded  him.  His  humor 
saved  him,  as  did  his  wide  experience  and  his  con 
servative  philosophic  temperament.  Nor  did  he 
have  any  patience  with  lightning  change  reform 
theories.  As  he  saw  it,  society  would  grow  better 
only  through  the  painfully  slow  and  arduously 
painful  processes  of  evolution.  There  were  no 
short  cuts,  no  sudden  regenerations.  The  better 
ment  of  mankind  must  be  worked  out  in  agony 
and  misery  just  as  all  past  social  betterments  had 
been  worked  out. 

But  on  this  late  summer  afternoon,  Carter  Wat 
son  was  curious.  As  he  moved  along  he  paused 
before  a  gaudy  drinking  place.  The  sign  above 
read,  "The  Vendome."  There  Were  two  en 
trances.  One  evidently  led  to  the  bar.  This  he 
did  not  explore.  The  other  was  a  narrow  hall 
way.  Passing  through  this  he  found  himself  in  a 
huge  room,  filled  with  chair-encircled  tables  and 
quite  deserted.  In  the  dim  light  he  made  out  a 
piano  in  the  distance.  Making  a  mental  note  that 
he  would  come  back  some  time  and  study  the 
class  of  persons  that  must  sit  and  drink  at  those 

101 


tttE 'BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

multitudinous  tables,  he  proceeded  to  circumnavi 
gate  the  room. 

Now,  at  the  rear,  a  short  hallway  led  off  to  a 
small  kitchen,  and  here,  at  a  table,  alone,  sat  Patsy 
Horan,  proprietor  of  the  Vendome,  consuming  a 
hasty  supper  ere  the  evening  rush  of  business. 
Also,  Patsy  Horan  was  angry  with  the  world. 
He  had  got  out  of  the  wrong  side  of  bed  that 
morning,  and  nothing  had  gone  right  all  day. 
Had  his  barkeepers  been  asked,  they  would  have 
described  his  mental  condition  as  a  grouch.  But 
Carter  Watson  did  not  know  this.  As  he  passed 
the  little  hallway,  Patsy  Koran's  sullen  eyes 
lighted  on  the  magazine  he  carried  under  his 
arm.  Patsy  did  not  know  Carter  Watson,  nor 
did  he  know  that  what  he  carried  under  his  arm 
was  a  magazine.  Patsy,  out  of  the  depths  of  his 
grouch,  decided  that  this  stranger  was  one  of  those 
pests  who  marred  and  scarred  the  walls  of  his  back 
rooms  by  tacking  up  or  pasting  up  advertisements. 
The  color  on  the  front  cover  of  the  magazine  con 
vinced  him  that  it  was  such  an  advertisement. 
Thus  the  trouble  began.  Knife  and  fork  in  hand, 
Patsy  leaped  for  Carter  Watson. 

"Out  wid  yeh !"  Patsy  bellowed.     "I  know  yer 


game!" 


102 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

Carter  Watson  was  startled.  The  man  had 
come  upon  him  like  the  eruption  of  a  jack-in-the- 
box. 

"A  defacin'  me  walls,"  cried  Patsy,  at  the  same 
time  emitting  a  string  of  vivid  and  vile,  rather 
than  virile,  epithets  of  opprobrium. 

"If  I  have  given  any  offense  I  did  not  mean 


But  that  was  as  far  as  the  visitor  got.  Patsy 
interrupted. 

"Get  out  wid  yeh;  yeh  talk  too  much  wid  yer 
mouth,"  quoted  Patsy,  emphasizing  his.  remarks 
with  flourishes  of  the  knife  and  fork. 

Carter  Watson  caught  a  quick  vision  of  that 
eating-fork  inserted  uncomfortaby  between  his 
ribs,  knew  that  it  would  be  rash  to  talk  further 
with  his  mouth,  and  promptly  turned  to  go.  The 
sight  of  his  meekly  retreating  back  must  have  fur 
ther  enraged  Patsy  Horan,  for  that  worthy,  drop 
ping  the  table  implements,  sprang  upon  him. 

Patsy  weighed  one  hundred  and  eighty  pounds. 
So  did  Watson.  In  this  they  were  equal.  But 
Patsy  was  a  rushing,  rough-and-tumble  saloon- 
fighter,  while  Watson  was  a  boxer.  In  this  the 
latter  had  the  advantage,  for  Patsy  came  in  wide 
open,  swinging  his  right  in  a  perilous  sweep.  All 

103 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

Watson  had  to  do  was  to  straight-left  him  and 
escape.  But  Watson  had  another  advantage. 
His  boxing,  and  his  experience  in  the  slums  and 
ghettos  of  the  world,  had  taught  him  restraint. 

He  pivoted  on  his  feet,  and,  instead  of  striking, 
ducked  the  other's  swinging  blow  and  went  into 
a  clinch.  But  Patsy,  charging  like  a  bull,  had  the 
momentum  of  his  rush,  while  Watson,  whirling 
to  meet  him,  had  no  momentum.  As  a  result,  the 
pair  of  them  went  down,  with  all  their  three  hun 
dred  and  sixty  pounds  of  weight,  in  a  long  crash 
ing  fall,  Watson  underneath.  He  lay  with  his 
head  touching  the  rear  wall  of  the  large  room. 
The  street  was  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  away,  and 
he  did  some  quick  thinking.  His  first  thought 
was  to  avoid  trouble.  He  had  no  wish  to  get  into 
the  papers  of  this,  his  childhood  town,  where 
many  of  his  relatives  and  family  friends  still 
lived. 

So  it  was  that  he  locked  his  arms  around  the 
man  on  top  of  him,  held  him  close,  and  waited  for 
the  help  to  come  that  must  come  in  response  to 
the  crash  of  the  fall.  The  help  came — that  is,  six 
men  ran  in  from  the  bar  and  formed  about  in  a 
semi-circle. 

"Take  him  off,  fellows,"  Watson  said.  "I 
104 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

haven't  struck  him,  and  I  don't  want  any  fight." 

But  the  semi-circle  remained  silent.  Watson 
held  on  and  waited.  Patsy,  after  various  vain  ef 
forts  to  inflict  damage,  made  an  overture. 

"Leggo  o'  me  an'  I  '11  get  off  o'  yeh,"  said  he. 

Watson  let  go,  but  when  Patsy  scrambled  to 
his  feet  he  stood  over  his  recumbent  foe,  ready  to 
strike. 

"Get  up,"  Patsy  commanded. 

His  voice  was  stern  and  implacable,  like  the 
voice  of  God  calling  to  judgment,  and  Watson 
knew  there  was  no  mercy  there. 

"Stand  back  and  I  '11  get  up,"  he  countered. 

"If  yer  a  gentleman,  get  up,"  quoth  Patsy,  his 
pale  blue  eyes  aflame  with  wrath,  his  fist  ready  for 
a  crushing  blow. 

At  the  same  moment  he  drew  his  foot  back  to 
kick  the  other  in  the  face.  Watson  blocked  the 
kick  with  his  crossed  arms  and  sprang  to  his  feet 
so  quickly  that  he  was  in  a  clinch  with  his  antag 
onist  before  the  latter  could  strike.  Holding  him, 
Watson  spoke  to  the  onlookers : 

"Take  him  away  from  me,  fellows.  You  see 
I  am  not  striking  him.  I  don't  want  to  fight.  I 
want  to  get  out  of  here." 

The  circle  did  not  move  nor  speak.  Its  silence 
105 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

was  ominous  and  sent  a  chill  to  Watson's  heart. 
Patsy  made  an  effort  to  throw  him,  which  culmi 
nated  in  his  putting  Patsy  on  his  back.  Tearing 
loose  from  him,  Watson  sprang  to  his  feet  and 
made  for  the  door.  But  the  circle  of  men  was  in 
terposed  like  a  wall.  He  noticed  the  white,  pasty 
faces,  the  kind  that  never  see  the  sun,  and  knew 
that  the  men  who  barred  his  way  were  the  night- 
prowlers  and  preying  beasts  of  the  city  jungle. 
By  them  he  was  thrust  back  upon  the  pursuing, 
bull-rushing  Patsy. 

Again  it  was  a  clinch,  in  which,  in  momentary 
safety,  Watson  appealed  to  the  gang.  And  again 
his  words  fell  on  deaf  ears.  Then  it  was  that  he 
knew  fear.  For  he  had  known  of  many  similar 
situations,  in  low  dens  like  this,  when  solitary  men 
were  man-handled,  their  ribs  and  features  caved 
in,  themselves  beaten  and  kicked  to  death.  And 
he  knew,  further,  that  if  he  were  to  escape  he  must 
neither  strike  his  assailant  nor  any  of  the  men  who 
opposed  him. 

Yet  in  him  was  righteous  indignation.  Under 
no  circumstances  could  seven  to  one  be  fair. 
Also,  he  was  angry,  and  there  stirred  in  him  the 
fighting  beast  that  is  in  all  men.  But  he  remem 
bered  his  wife  and  children,  his  unfinished  book, 

106 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

the  ten  thousand  rolling  acres  of  the  up-country 
ranch  he  loved  so  well.  He  even  saw  in  flashing 
visions  the  blue  of  the  sky,  the  golden  sun  pouring 
down  on  his  flower-spangled  meadows,  the  lazy 
cattle  knee-deep  in  the  brooks,  and  the  flash  of 
trout  in  the  riffles.  Life  was  good — too  good 
for  him  to  risk  it  for  a  moment's  sway  of  the 
beast.  In  short,  Carter  Watson  was  cool  and 
scared. 

His  opponent,  locked  by  his  masterly  clinch, 
was  striving  to  throw  him.  Again  Watson  put 
him  on  the  floor,  broke  away,  and  was  thrust  back 
by  the  pasty-faced  circle  to  duck  Patsy's  swinging 
right  and  effect  another  clinch.  This  happened 
many  times.  And  Watson  grew  even  cooler, 
while  the  baffled  Patsy,  unable  to  inflict  punish 
ment,  raged  wildly  and  more  wildly.  He  took  to 
batting  with  his  head  in  the  clinches.  The  firs't 
time,  he  landed  his  forehead  flush  on  Watson's 
nose.  After  that,  the  latter,  in  the  clinches, 
buried  his  face  in  Patsy's  breast.  But  the  enraged 
Patsy  batted  on,  striking  his  own  eye  and  nose 
and  cheek  on  the  top  of  the  other's  head.  The 
more  he  was  thus  injured,  the  more  and  the  harder 
did  Patsy  bat. 

This  one-sided  contest  continued  for  twelve 
107 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

or  fifteen  minutes.  Watson  never  struck  a  blow, 
and  strove  only  to  escape.  Sometimes,  in  the 
free  moments,  circling  about  among  the  tables  as 
he  tried  to  win  the  door,  the  pasty-faced  men 
gripped  his  coat-tails  and  flung  him  back  at  the 
swinging  right  of  the  on-rushing  Patsy.  Time 
upon  time,  and  times  without  end,  he  clinched  and 
put  Patsy  on  his  back,  each  time  first  whirling  him 
around  and  putting  him  down  in  the  direction  of 
the  door  and  gaining  toward  that  goal  by  the 
length  of  the  fall. 

In  the  end,  hatless,  dishevelled,  with  streaming 
nose  and  one  eye  closed,  Watson  won  to  the  side 
walk  and  into  the  arms  of  a  policeman. 

"Arrest  that  man,"  Watson  panted. 

"Hello,  Patsy,"  said  the  policeman.  "What 's 
the  mix-up*?" 

"Hello,  Charley,"  was  the  answer.  "This  guy 
comes  in — " 

"Arrest  that  man,  officer,"  Watson  repeated. 

"G'wan!  Beat  it!"  said  Patsy. 

"Beat  it !"  added  the  policeman.  "If  you  don't 
I  '11  pull  you  in." 

"Not  unless  you  arrest  that  man.  He  has  com 
mitted  a  violent  and  unprovoked  assault  on  me." 

"Is  it  so,  Patsy?"  was  the  officer's  query. 
108 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

"Nah.  Lemme  tell  you,  Charley,  an'  I  got  the 
witnesses  to  prove  it,  so  help  me  God.  I  was  set- 
tin'  in  me  kitchen  eatin'  a  bowl  of  soup,  when 
this  guy  comes  in  an'  gets  gay  wid  me.  I 
never  seen  him  in  me  born  days  before.  He  was 
drunk—" 

"Look  at  me,  officer,"  protested  the  indignant 
sociologist.  "Am  I  drunk*?" 

The  officer  looked  at  him  with  sullen,  menacing 
eyes  and  nodded  to  Patsy  to  continue. 

"This  guy  gets  gay  wid  me.  T  'm  Tim 
McGrath,'  says  he,  'an'  I  can  do  the  like  to  you,' 
says  he.  Tut  up  yer  hands.'  I  smiles,  an'  wid 
that,  biff  biff,  he  lands  me  twice  an'  spills  me  soup. 
Look  at  me  eye.  I  'm  fair  murdered." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  officer5?"  Watson 
demanded. 

"Go  on,  beat  it,"  was  the  answer,  "or  I  '11  pull 
you  sure." 

Then  the  civic  righteousness  of  Carter  Watson 
flamed  up. 

"Mr.  Officer,  I  protest—" 

But  at  that  moment  the  policeman  grabbed  his 
arm  with  a  savage  jerk  that  nearly  overthrew  him. 

"Come  on,  you  're  pulled." 

"Arrest  him,  too,"  Watson  demanded. 
109 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

"Nix  on  that  play,"  was  the  reply.  "What  did 
you  assault  him  for,  him  a  peacefully  eatin'  his 
soup?' 

II 

Carter  Watson  was  genuinely  angry.  Not 
only  had  he  been  wantonly  assaulted,  badly 
battered,  and  arrested,  but  the  morning 
papers  without  exception  came  out  with  lurid  ac 
counts  of  his  drunken  brawl  with  the  proprietor 
of  the  notorious  Vendome.  Not  one  accurate  or 
truthful  line  was  published.  Patsy  Horan  and 
his  satellites  described  the  battle  in  detail.  ,  The 
one  incontestible  thing  was  that  Carter  Watson 
had  been  drunk.  Thrice  he  had  been  thrown  out 
of  the  place  and  into  the  gutter,  and  thrice  he  had 
come  back,  breathing  blood  and  fire  and  announc 
ing  that  he  was  going  to  clean  out  the  place. 
"EMINENT  SOCIOLOGIST  JAGGED  AND 
JUGGED,"  was  the  first  head-line  he  read, 
on  the  front  page,  accompanied  by  a  large  portrait 
of  himself.  Other  headlines  were:  "CARTER 
WATSON  ASPIRED  TO  CHAMPIONSHIP 
HONORS";  "CARTER  WATSON  GETS 
HIS";  "NOTED  SOCIOLOGIST  ATTEMPTS 
TO  CLEAN  OUT  A  TENDERLOIN  CAFE"; 

no 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

and  "CARTER  WATSON  KNOCKED  OUT 
BY  PATSY  HORAN  IN  THREE  ROUNDS." 

At  the  police  court,  next  morning,  under  bail, 
appeared  Carter  Watson  to  answer  the  complaint 
of  the  People  Versus  Carter  Watson,  for  the  lat- 
ter's  assault  and  battery  on  one  Patsy  Horan. 
But  first,  the  Prosecuting  Attorney,  who  was  paid 
to  prosecute  all  offenders  against  the  People,  drew 
him  aside  and  talked  with  him  privately. 

"Why  not  let  it  drop?"  said  the  Prosecuting 
Attorney.  "I  tell  you  what  you  do,  Mr.  Watson : 
Shake  hands  with  Mr.  Horan  and  make  it  up,  and 
we  '11  drop  the  case  right  here.  A  word  to  the 
Judge,  and  the  case  against  you  will  be  dismissed." 

"But  I  don't  want  it  dismissed,"  was  the  an 
swer.  "Your  office  being  what  it  is,  you  should 
be  prosecuting  me  instead  of  asking  me  to  make  up 
with  this — this  fellow." 

"Oh,  I  '11  prosecute  you  all  right,"  retorted  the 
Prosecuting  Attorney. 

"Also  you  will  have  to  prosecute  this  Patsy 
Horan,"  Watson  advised;  "for  I  shall  now  have 
him  arrested  for  assault  and  battery." 

"You  'd  better  shake  and  make  up,"  the  Prose 
cuting  Attorney  repeated,  and  this  time  there  was 
almost  a  threat  in  his  voice. 

ill 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

The  trials  of  both  men  were  set  for  a  week 
later,  on  the  same  morning,  in  Police  Judge  Wit- 
berg's  court. 

"You  have  no  chance,"  Watson  was  told  by  an 
old  friend  of  his  boyhood,  the  retired  manager  of 
the  biggest  paper  in  the  city.  "Everybody  knows 
you  were  beaten  up  by  this  man.  His  reputation 
is  most  unsavory.  But  it  won't  help  you  in  the 
least.  Both  cases  will  be  dismissed.  This  will  be 
because  you  are  you.  Any  ordinary  man  would 
be  convicted." 

"But  I  do  not  understand/'  objected  the  per 
plexed  sociologist.  "Without  warning  I  was  at 
tacked  by  this  man  and  badly  beaten.  I  did  not 
strike  a  blow.  I — " 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  the  other  cut 
him  off. 

"Then  what  is  there  that  has  anything  to  do 
with  it?" 

"I  '11  tell  you.  You  are  now  up  against  the 
local  police  and  political  machine.  Who  are 
you?  You  are  not  even  a  legal  resident  in  this 
town.  You  live  up  in  the  country.  You 
have  n't  a  vote  of  your  own  here.  Much  less  do 
you  swing  any  votes.  This  dive  proprietor  swings 
a  string  of  votes  in  his  precinct — a  mighty  long 
string." 

112 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  this  Judge  Wit- 
berg  will  violate  the  sacredness  of  his  office 
and  oath  by  letting  this  brute  off?"  Watson  de 
manded. 

"Watch  him,"  was  the  grim  reply.  "Oh,  he  '11 
do  it  nicely  enough.  He  will  give  an  extra-legal, 
extra-judicial  decision,  abounding  in  every  word 
in  the  dictionary  that  stands  for  fairness  and 
right." 

"But  there  are  the  newspapers,"  Watson 
cried. 

"They  are  not  fighting  the  administration  at 
present.  They  '11  give  it  to  you  hard.  You  see 
what  they  have  already  done  to  you." 

"Then  these  snips  of  boys  on  the  police  detail 
won't  write  the  truth?" 

"They  will  write  something  so  near  like  the 
truth  that  the  public  will  believe  it.  They  write 
their  stories  under  instruction,  you  know.  They 
have  their  orders  to  twist  and  color,  and  there 
won't  be  much  left  of  you  when  they  get  done. 
Better  drop  the  whole  thing  right  now.  YOU  are. 
in  bad." 

"But  the  trials  are  set." 

"Give  the  word  and  they  '11  drop  them  now.  A 
man  can't  fight  a  machine  unless  he  has  a  machine 
behind  him." 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

III 

But  Carter  Watson  was  stubborn.  He  was 
convinced  that  the  machine  would  beat  him, 
but  all  his  days  he  had  sought  social  experience, 
and  this  was  certainly  something  new. 

The  morning  of  the  trial  the  Prosecuting  At 
torney  made  another  attempt  to  patch  up  the  af 
fair. 

"If  you  feel  that  way,  I  should  like  to 
get  a  lawyer  to  prosecute  the  case,"  said  Wat 
son. 

"No,  you  don't,"  said  the  Prosecuting  Attorney. 
"I  am  paid  by  the  People  to  prosecute,  and  prose 
cute  I  will.  But  let  me  tell  you.  You  have  no 
chance.  We  shall  lump  both  cases  into  one,  and 
you  watch  out." 

Judge  Witberg  looked  good  to  Watson.  A 
fairly  young  man,  short,  comfortably  stout, 
smooth-shaven  and  with  an  intelligent  face,  he 
seemed  a  very  nice  man  indeed.  This  good  im 
pression  was  added  to  by  the  smiling  lips  and  the 
wrinkles  of  laughter  in  the  corners  of  his  black 
eyes.  Looking  at  him  and  studying  him,  Watson 
felt  almost  sure  that  his  old  friend's  prognostica 
tion  was  wrong. 

114 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

But  Watson  was  soon  to  learn.  Patsy  Horan 
and  two  of  his  satellites  testified  to  a  most 
colossal  aggregation  of  perjuries.  Watson  could 
not  have  believed  it  possible  without  having  ex 
perienced  it.  They  denied  the  existence  of  the 
other  four  men.  And  of  the  two  that  testified, 
one  claimed  to  have  been  in  the  kitchen,  a  witness 
to  Watson's  unprovoked  assault  on  Patsy,  while 
the  other,  remaining  in  the  bar,  had  witnessed 
Watson's  second  and  third  rushes  into  the  place 
as  he  attempted  to  annihilate  the  unoffending 
Patsy.  The  vile  language  ascribed  to  Watson 
was  so  voluminously  and  unspeakably  vile,  that 
he  felt  they  were  injuring  their  own  case.  It  was 
so  impossible  that  he  should  utter  such  things. 
But  when  they  described  the  brutal  blows  he  had 
rained  on  poor  Patsy's  face,  and  the  chair  he  de 
molished  when  he  vainly  attempted  to  kick  Patsy, 
Watson  waxed  secretly  hilarious  and  at  the  same 
time  sad.  The  trial  was  a  farce,  but  such  low- 
ness  of  life  was  depressing  to  contemplate  when 
he  considered  the  long  upward  climb  humanity 
must  make. 

Watson  could  not  recognize  himself,  nor  could 
his  worst  enemy  have  recognized  him,  in  the 
swashbuckling,  rough-housing  picture  that  was 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

painted  of  him.  But,  as  in  all  cases  of  compli 
cated  perjury,  rifts  and  contradictions  in  the  va 
rious  stories  appeared.  The  Judge  somehow 
failed  to  notice  them,  while  the  Prosecuting  At 
torney  and  Patsy's  attorney  shied  off  from  them 
gracefully.  Watson  had  not  bothered  to  get  a 
lawyer  for  himself,  and  he  was  now  glad  that  he 
had  not. 

Still,  he  retained  a  semblance  of  faith  in  Judge 
Witberg  when  he  went  himself  on  the  stand  and 
started  to  tell  his  story. 

"I  was  strolling  casually  along  the  street,  your 
Honor,"  Watson  began,  but  was  interrupted  by 
the  Judge. 

"We  are  not  here  to  consider  your  previous 
actions,"  bellowed  Judge  Witberg.  "Who  struck 
the  first  blow?" 

"Your  Honor,"  Watson  pleaded,  "I  have  no 
witnesses  of  the  actual  fray,  and  the  truth  of  my 
story  can  only  be  brought  out  by  telling  the  story 
fully—" 

Again  he  was  interrupted. 

"We  do  not  care  to  publish  any  magazines 
here,"  Judge  Witberg  roared,  looking  at  him  so 
fiercely  and  malevolently  that  Watson  could 
scarcely  bring  himself  to  believe  that  this  was  the 

116 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

same  man  he  had  studied  a  few  minutes  previ 
ously. 

"Who  struck  the  first  blow?'  Patsy's  attorney 
asked. 

The  Prosecuting  Attorney  interposed,  demand 
ing  to  know  which  of  the  two  cases  lumped  to 
gether  this  was,  and  by  what  right  Patsy's  lawyer, 
at  that  stage  of  the  proceedings,  should  take  the 
witness.  Patsy's  attorney  fought  back.  Judge 
Witberg  interfered,  professing  no  knowledge  of 
any  two  cases  being  lumped  together.  All  this* 
had  to  be  explained.  Battle  royal  raged,  termina 
ting  in  both  attorneys  apologizing  to  the  Court 
and  to  each  other.  And  so  it  went,  and  to  Wat 
son  it  had  the  seeming  of  a  group  of  pickpockets 
ruffling  and  bustling  an  honest  man  as  they  took 
his  purse.  The  machine  was  working,  that  was 
all. 

"Why  did  you  enter  this  place  of  unsavory 
reputation*?"  was  asked  him. 

"It  has  been  my  custom  for  many  years,  as  a 
student  of  economics  and  sociology,  to  acquaint 
myself—" 

But  this  was  as  far  as  Watson  got. 

"We  want  none  of  your  ologies  here,"  snarled 
Judge  Witberg.  "It  is  a  plain  question.  Answer 

117 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

it  plainly.  Is  it  true  or  not  true  that  you  were 
drunk?  That  is  the  gist  of  the  question." 

When  Watson  attempted  to  tell  how  Patsy  had 
injured  his  face  in  his  attempts  to  bat  with  his 
head,  Watson  was  openly  scouted  and  flouted, 
and  Judge  Witberg  again  took  him  in  hand. 

"Are  you  aware  of  the  solemnity  of  the  oath 
you  took  to  testify  to  nothing  but  the  truth  on  this 
witness  stand?"  the  Judge  demanded.  "This  is 
a  fairy  story  you  are  telling.  It  is  not  reasonable 
that  a  man  would  so  injure  himself,  and  continue 
to  injure  himself,  by  striking  the  soft  and  sensitive 
parts  of  his  face  against  your  head.  You  are  a 
sensible  man.  It  is  unreasonable,  is  it  not?" 

"Men  are  unreasonable  when  they  are  angry," 
Watson  answered  meekly. 

Then  it  was  that  Judge  Witberg  was  deeply 
outraged  and  righteously  wrathful. 

"What  right  have  you  to  say  that?"  he  cried. 
"It  is  gratuitous.  It  has  no  bearing  on  the  case. 
You  are  here  as  a  witness,  sir,  of  events  that  have 
transpired.  The  Court  does  not  wish  to  hear  any 
expressions  of  opinion  from  you  at  all." 

"I  but  answered  your  question,  your  Honor," 
Watson  protested  humbly. 

".You  did  nothing  of  the  sort,"  was  the  next 
118 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

blast.  "And  let  me  warn  you,  sir,  let  me  warn 
you,  that  you  are  laying  yourself  liable  to  con 
tempt  by  such  insolence.  And  I  will  have  you 
know  that  we  know  how  to  observe  the  law  and 
the  rules  of  courtesy  down  here  in  this  little  court 
room.  I  am  ashamed  of  you." 

And,  while  the  next  punctilious  legal  wrangle 
between  the  attorneys  interrupted  his  tale  of  what 
happened  in  the  Vendome,  Carter  Watson,  with 
out  bitterness,  amused  and  at  the  same  time  sad, 
saw  rise  before  him  the  machine,  large  and  small, 
that  dominated  his  country,  the  unpunished  and 
shameless  grafts  of  a  thousand  cities  perpetrated 
by  the  spidery  and  vermin-like  creatures  of  the 
machines.  Here  it  was  before  him,  a  courtroom 
and  a  judge,  bowed  down  in  subservience  by  the 
machine  to  a  dive-keeper  who  swung  a  string  of 
votes.  Petty  and  sordid  as  it  was,  it  was  one  face 
of  the  many- faced  machine  that  loomed  colossally, 
in  every  city  and  state,  in  a  thousand  guises  over 
shadowing  the  land. 

A  familiar  phrase  rang  in  his  ears:  "It  is  to 
laugh."  At  the  height  of  the  wrangle,  he  giggled, 
once,  aloud,  and  earned  a  sullen  frown  from  Judge 
Witberg.  Worse,  a  myriad  times,  he  decided, 
were  these  bullying  lawyers  and  this  bullying 

119 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

judge  then  the  bucko  mates  in  first  quality  hell- 
ships,  who  not  only  did  their  own  bullying  but 
protected  themselves  as  well.  These  petty  rap 
scallions,  on  the  other  hand,  sought  protection  be 
hind  the  majesty  of  the  law.  They  struck,  but  no 
one  was  permitted  to  strike  back,  for  behind  them 
were  the  prison  cells  and  the  clubs  of  the  stupid 
policemen — paid  and  professional  fighters  and 
beaters-up  of  men.  Yet  he  was  not  bitter.  The 
grossness  and  the  sliminess  of  it  was  forgotten  in 
the  simple  grotesqueness  of  it,  and  he  had  the  sav 
ing  sense  of  humor. 

Nevertheless,  hectored  and  heckled  though  he 
was,  he  managed  in  the  end  to  give  a  simple, 
straightforward  version  of  the  affair,  and,  despite 
a  belligerent  cross-examination,  his  story  was  not 
shaken  in  any  particular.  Quite  different  it  was 
from  the  perjuries  that  had  shouted  aloud 
through  the  stories  of  Patsy  and  his  two  wit 
nesses. 

Both  Patsy's  attorney  and  the  Prosecuting  At 
torney  rested  their  cases,  letting  everything  go  be 
fore  the  Court  without  argument.  Watson  pro 
tested  against  this,  but  was  silenced  when  the 
Prosecuting  Attorney  told  him  that  he  was  the 
Public  Prosecutor  and  knew  his  business. 

120 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

"Patrick  Horan  has  testified  that  he  was  in 
danger  of  his  life  and  that  he  was  compelled  to 
defend  himself,"  Judge  Witberg's  verdict  began. 
"Mr.  Watson  has  testified  to  the  same  thing. 
Each  has  sworn  that  the  other  struck  the  first 
blow;  each  has  sworn  that  the  other  made  an 
unprovoked  assault  on  him.  It  is  an  axiom  of 
the  law  that  the  defendant  should  be  given  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt.  A  very  reasonable  doubt 
exists.  Therefore,  in  the  case  of  the  People  Ver 
sus  Carter  Watson  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  is 
given  to  said  Carter  Watson  and  he  is  herewith 
ordered  discharged  from  custody.  The  same  rea 
soning  applies  to  the  case  of  the  People  Versus 
Patrick  Horan.  He  is  given  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt  and  discharged  from  custody.  My  recom 
mendation  is  that  both  defendants  shake  hands 
and  make  up." 

In  the  afternoon  papers  the  first  headline  that 
caught  Watson's  eye  was:  "CARTER  WAT 
SON  ACQUITTED."  In  the  second  paper  it 
was:  "CARTER  WATSON  ESCAPES  A 
FINE."  But  what  capped  everything  was  the 
one  beginning:  "CARTER  WATSON  A  GOOD 
FELLOW."  In  the  text  he  read  how  Judge 
Witberg  had  advised  both  fighters  to  shake  hands, 

121 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

which   they   promptly   did.     Further,   he   read: 
"  'Let 's  have  a  nip  on  it,'  said  Patsy  Horan. 
"  'Sure,'  said  Carter  Watson. 
"And,  arm  in  arm,  they  ambled  for  the  near 
est  saloon." 


IV 

Now,  from  the  whole  adventure,  Watson  car 
ried  away  no  bitterness.  It  was  a  social  experi 
ence  of  a  new  order,  and  it  led  to  the  writing  of 
another  book,  which  he  entitled,  "POLICE 
COURT  PROCEDURE:  A  Tentative  Analy 
sis." 

One  summer  morning  a  year  later,  on  his  ranch, 
he  left  his  horse  and  himself  clambered  on  through 
a  miniature  canyon  to  inspect  some  rock  ferns  he 
had  planted  the  previous  winter.  Emerging  from 
the  upper  end  of  the  canyon,  he  came  out  on  one 
of  his  flower-spangled  meadows,  a  delightful  iso 
lated  spot,  screened  from  the  world  by  low  hills 
and  clumps  of  trees.  And  here  he  found  a  man, 
evidently  on  a  stroll  from  the  summer  hotel  down 
at  the  little  town  a  mile  away.  They  met  face 
to  face  and  the  recognition  was  mutual.  It  was 
Judge  Witberg.  Also,  it  was  a  clear  case  of  tres- 

122 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

pass,  for  Watson  had  trespass  signs  upon 
his  boundaries,  though  he  never  enforced 
them. 

Judge  Witberg  held  out  his  hand,  which  Wat 
son  refused  to  see. 

"Politics  is  a  dirty  trade,  isn't  it,  Judged"  he 
remarked.  "Oh,  yes,  I  see  your  hand,  but  I  don't 
care  to  take  it.  The  papers  said  I  shook  hands 
with  Patsy  Horan  after  the  trial.  You  know  I 
did  n't,  but  let  me  tell  you  that  I  'd  a  thousand 
times  rather  shake  hands  with  him  and  his  vile 
following  of  curs,  than  with  you." 

Judge  Witberg  was  painfully  flustered,  and  as 
he  hemmed  and  hawed  and  essayed  to  speak,  Wat 
son,  looking  at  him,  was  struck  by  a  sudden 
whim,  and  he  determined  on  a  grim  and  facetious 
antic. 

"I  should  scarcely  expect  any  animus  from  a 
man  of  your  acquirements  and  knowledge  of  the 
world,"  the  Judge  was  saying. 

"Animus^"  Watson  replied.  "Certainly  not. 
I  have  n't  such  a  thing  in  my  nature.  And  to 
prove  it,  let  me  show  you  something  curious,  some 
thing  you  have  never  seen  before."  Casting 
about  him,  Watson  picked  up  a  rough  stone  the 
size  of  his  fist.  "See  this.  Watch  me." 

123 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

So  saying,  Carter  Watson  tapped  himself  a 
sharp  blow  on  the  cheek.  The  stone  laid  the  flesh 
open  to  the  bone  and  the  blood  spurted  forth. 

"The  stone  was  too  sharp,"  he  announced  to 
the  astounded  police  judge,  who  thought  he 
had  gone  mad.  "I  must  bruise  it  a  trifle. 
There  is  nothing  like  being  realistic  in  such  mat 
ters." 

Whereupon  Carter  Watson  found  a  smooth 
stone  and  with  it  pounded  his  cheek  nicely  several 
times. 

"Ah,"  he  cooed.  "That  will  turn  beautifully 
green  and  black  in  a  few  hours.  It  will  be  most 
convincing." 

"You  are  insane,"  Judge  Witberg  quavered. 

"Don't  use  such  vile  language  to  me,"  said 
Watson.  "You  see  my  bruised  and  bleeding 
face?  You  did  that,  with  that  right  hand  of 
yours.  You  hit  me  twice — biff  biff.  It  is  a 
brutal  and  unprovoked  assault.  I  am  in  danger 
of  my  life.  I  must  protect  myself." 

Judge  Witberg  backed  away  in  alarm  before 
the  menacing  fists  of  the  other. 

"If  you  strike  me  I  '11  have  you  arrested," 
Judge  Witberg  threatened. 

"That  is  what  I  told  Patsy,"  was  the  answer. 
124 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

"And  do  you  know  what  he  did  when  I  told  him 
that?' 

"No." 

"That!" 

And  at  the  same  moment  Watson's  right  fist 
landed  flush  on  Judge  Witberg's  nose,  putting 
that  legal  gentleman  over  on  his  back  on  the  grass. 

"Get  up!"  commanded  Watson.  "If  you  are 
a  gentleman,  get  up — that 's  what  Patsy  told  me, 
you  know." 

Judge  Witberg  declined  to  rise,  and  was 
dragged  to  his  feet  by  the  coat-collar,  only  to 
have  one  eye  blacked  and  be  put  on  his  back  again. 
After  that  it  was  a  red  Indian  massacre.  Judge 
Witberg  was  humanely  and  scientifically  beaten 
up.  His  cheeks  were  boxed,  his  ears  cuffed,  and 
his  face  was  rubbed  in  the  turf.  And  all  the  time 
Watson  exposited  the  way  Patsy  Horan  had  done 
it.  Occasionally,  and  very  carefully,  the  face 
tious  sociologist  administered  a  real  bruising  blow. 
Once,  dragging  the  poor  Judge  to  his  feet,  he  de 
liberately  bumped  his  own  nose  on  the  gentle 
man's  head.  The  nose  promptly  bled. 

"See  that!"  cried  Watson,  stepping  back  and 
deftly  shedding  his  blood  all  down  his  own  shirt 
front.  "You  did  it.  With  your  fist  you  did  it. 

125 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

It  is  awful.  I  am  fair  murdered.  I  must  again 
defend  myself." 

And  once  more  Judge  Witberg  impacted  his 
features  on  a  fist  and  was  sent  to  grass. 

"I  will  have  you  arrested,"  he  sobbed  as  he  lay. 

"That 's  what  Patsy  said." 

"A  brutal — sniff,  sniff, — and  unprovoked — 
sniff,  sniff — assault." 

"That 's  what  Patsy  said." 

"I  will  surely  have  you  arrested." 

"Speaking  slangily,  not  if  I  can  beat  you  to 
it." 

And  with  that,  Carter  Watson  departed  down 
the  canyon,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  to  town. 

An  hour  later,  as  Judge  Witberg  limped  up 
the  grounds  to  his  hotel,  he  was  arrested  by  a 
village  constable  on  a  charge  of  assault  and  bat 
tery  preferred  by  Carter  Watson. 


"Your  Honor,"  Watson  said  next  day  to  the 
village  Justice,  a  well  to  do  farmer  and  graduate, 
thirty  years  before,  from  a  cow  college,  "since  this 
Sol  Witberg  has  seen  fit  to  charge  me  with  bat 
tery,  following  upon  my  charge  of  battery  against 

126 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

him,  I  would  suggest  that  both  cases  be  lumped 
together.  The  testimony  and  the  facts  are  the 
same  in  both  cases." 

To  this  the  Justice  agreed,  and  the  double  case 
proceeded.  Watson,  as  prosecuting  witness,  first 
took  the  stand  and  told  his  story. 

"I  was  picking  flowers,"  he  testified.  "Picking 
flowers  on  my  own  land,  never  dreaming  of  dan 
ger.  Suddenly  this  man  rushed  upon  me  from 
behind  the  trees.  T  am  the  Dodo,'  he  says,  'and 
I  can  do  you  to  a  frazzle.  Put  up  your  hands.' 
I  smiled,  but  with  that,  biff  biff,  he  struck  me, 
knocking  me  down  and  spilling  my  flowers.  The 
language  he  used  was  frightful.  It  was  an  un 
provoked  and  brutal  assault.  Look  at  my  cheek. 
Look  at  my  nose.  I  could  not  understand  it. 
He  must  have  been  drunk.  Before  I  recovered 
from  my  surprise  he  had  administered  this  beat 
ing.  I  was  in  danger  of  my  life  and  was  com 
pelled  to  defend  himself.  That  is  all,  Your 
Honor,  though  I  must  say,  in  conclusion,  that  I 
cannot  get  over  my  perplexity.  Why  did  he  say 
he  was  the  Dodo?  Why  did  he  so  wantonly 
attack  me?' 

And  thus  was  Sol  Witberg  given  a  liberal 
education  in  the  art  of  perjury.  Often,  from  his 

127 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

high  seat,  he  had  listened  indulgently  to  police 
court  perjuries  in  cooked-up  cases;  but  for  the 
first  time  perjury  was  directed  against  him,  and 
he  no  longer  sat  above  the  court,  with  the  bailiffs, 
the  policemen's  clubs,  and  the  prison  cells  behind 
him. 

"Your  Honor,"  he  cried,  "never  have  I  heard 
such  a  pack  of  lies  told  by  so  bare-faced  a 
liar—" 

Watson  here  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Your  Honor,  I  protest.  It  is  for  your  Honor 
to  decided  truth  or  falsehood.  The  witness  is  on 
the  stand  to  testify  to  actual  events  that  have 
transpired.  His  personal  opinion  upon  things  in 
general,  and  upon  me,  has  no  bearing  on  the  case 
whatever." 

The  Justice  scratched  his  head  and  waxed 
phlegmatically  indignant. 

"The  point  is  well  taken,"  he  decided.  "I  am 
surprised  at  you,  Mr.  Witberg,  claiming  to  be  a 
judge  and  skilled  in  the  practice  of  the  law,  and 
yet  being  guilty  of  such  unlawyerlike  conduct. 
Your  manner,  sir,  and  your  methods,  remind  me 
of  a  shyster.  This  is  a  simple  case  of  assault  and 
battery.  We  are  here  to  determine  who  struck 
the  first  blow,  and  we  are  not  interested  in  your 

128 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

estimates  of  Mr.  Watson's  personal  character. 
Proceed  with  your  story." 

Sol  Witberg  would  have  bitten  his  bruised  and 
swollen  lip  in  chagrin,  had  it  not  hurt  so  much. 
But  he  contained  himself  and  told  a  simple, 
straightforward,  truthful  story. 

"Your  Honor,"  Watson  said,  "I  would  sug 
gest  that  you  ask  him  what  he  was  doing  on  my 
premises." 

"A  very  good  question.  What  were  you  doing, 
sir,  on  Mr.  Watson's  premises^" 

"I  did  not  know  they  were  his  premises." 

"It  was  a  trespass,  your  Honor,"  Watson  cried. 
"The  warnings  are  posted  conspicuously." 

"I  saw  no  warnings,"  said  Sol  Witberg. 

"I  have  seen  them  myself,"  snapped  the  Jus 
tice.  "They  are  very  conspicuous.  And  I  would 
warn  you,  sir,  that  if  you  palter  with  the  truth 
in  such  little  matters  you  may  darken  your  more 
important  statements  with  suspicion.  Why  did 
you  strike  Mr.  Watson*?" 

"Your  Honor,  as  I  have  testified,  I  did  not 
strike  a  blow." 

The  Justice  looked  at  Carter  Watson's  bruised 
and  swollen  visage,  and  turned  to  glare  at  Sol 
Witberg. 

129 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

"Look  at  that  man's  cheek!"  he  thundered. 
"If  you  did  not  strike  a  blow  how  comes  it  that 
he  is  so  disfigured  and  injured?' 

"As  I  testified—" 

"Be  careful,"  the  Justice  warned. 

"I  will  be  careful,  sir.  I  will  say  nothing  but 
the  truth.  He  struck  himself  with  a  rock.  He 
struck  himself  with  two  different  rocks." 

"Does  it  stand  to  reason  that  a  man,  any  man 
not  a  lunatic,  would  so  injure  himself,  and  con 
tinue  to  injure  himself,  by  striking  the  soft  and 
sensitive  parts  of  his  face  with  a  stoned"  Carter 
Watson  demanded. 

"It  sounds  like  a  fairy  story,"  was  the  Justice's 
comment.  "Mr.  Witberg,  had  you  been  drink 
ing?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Do  you  never  drink*?" 

"On  occasion." 

The  Justice  meditated  on  this  answer  with  an 
air  of  astute  profundity. 

Watson  took  advantage  of  the  opportunity  to 
wink  at  Sol  Witberg,  but  that  much-abused 
gentleman  saw  nothing  humorous  in  the  situation. 

"A  very  peculiar  case,  a  very  peculiar  case," 
the  Justice  announced,  as  he  began  his  verdict. 

13° 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

"The  evidence  of  the  two  parties  is  flatly  con 
tradictory.  There  are  no  witnesses  outside  the 
two  principals.  Each  claims  the  other  committed 
the  assault,  and  I  have  no  legal  way  of  deter 
mining  the  truth.  But  I  have  my  private  opin 
ion,  Mr.  Witberg,  and  I  would  recommend  that 
henceforth  you  keep  off  of  Mr.  Watson's  premises 
and  keep  away  from  this  section  of  the  coun- 
try—" 

"This  is  an  outrage !"  Sol  Witberg  blurted  out. 

"Sit  down,  sir!"  was  the  Justice's  thundered 
command.  "If  you  interrupt  the  Court  in  this 
manner  again,  I  shall  fine  you  for  contempt. 
And  I  warn  you  I  shall  fine  you  heavily — you,  a 
judge  yourself,  who  should  be  conversant  with 
the  courtesy  and  dignity  of  courts.  I  shall  now 
give  my  verdict: 

"It  is  a  rule  of  law  that  the  defendant  shall  be 
given  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  As  I  have  said, 
and  I  repeat,  there  is  no  legal  way  for  me  to 
determine  who  struck  the  first  blow.  Therefore, 
and  much  to  my  regret," — here  he  paused  and 
glared  at  Sol  Witberg — "in  each  of  these  cases  I 
am  compelled  to  give  the  defendant  the  benefit 
of  the  doubt.  Gentlemen,  you  are  both  dis 
missed." 


THE  BENEFIT  OF  THE  DOUBT 

"Let  us  have  a  nip  on  it,"  Watson  said  to 
Witberg,  as  they  left  the  courtroom;  but  that 
outraged  person  refused  to  lock  arms  and  amble 
to  the  nearest  saloon. 


132 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

PETER  WINN  lay  back  comfortably  in  a 
library  chair,  with  closed  eyes,  deep  in  the 
cogitation  of  a  scheme  of  campaign  destined  in 
the  near  future  to  make  a  certain  coterie  of  hostile 
financiers  sit  up.  The  central  idea  had  come  to 
him  the  night  before,  and  he  was  now  reveling  in 
the  planning  of  the  remoter,  minor  details.  By 
obtaining  control  of  a  certain  up-country  bank, 
two  general  stores,  and  several  logging  camps, 
he  could  come  into  control  of  a  certain  dinky 
jerkwater  line  which  shall  here  be  nameless,  but 
which,  in  his  hands,  would  prove  the  key  to  a 
vastly  larger  situation  involving  more  main-line 
mileage  almost  than  there  were  spikes  in  the  afore 
said  dinky  jerkwater.  It  was  so  simple  that  he 
had  almost  laughed  aloud  when  it  came  to  him. 
No  wonder  those  astute  and  ancient  enemies  of 
his  had  passed  it  by. 

The  library  door  opened,  and  a  slender,  middle- 
aged  man,  weak-eyed  and  eye  glassed,  entered. 
In  his  hands  was  an  envelope  and  an  open  letter. 

135 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

As  Peter  Winn's  secretary  it  was  his  task  to  weed 
out,  sort,  and  classify  his  employer's  mail. 

"This  came  in  the  morning  post,"  he  ventured 
apologetically  and  with  the  hint  of  a  titter.  "Of 
course  it  doesn't  amount  to  anything,  but  I  thought 
you  would  like  to  see  it." 

"Read  it,"  Peter  Winn  commanded,  without 
opening  his  eyes. 

The  secretary  cleared  his  throat. 

"It  is  dated  July  seventeenth,  but  is  without 
address.  Postmark  San  Francisco.  It  is  also 
quite  illiterate.  The  spelling  is  atrocious. 
Here  it  is : 

Mr.  Peter  Winn, 

SIR:  I  send  you  respectfully  by  express  a  pigeon 
worth  good  money.  She's  a  loo-loo — 

"What  is  a  loo-loo?"  Peter  Winn  interrupted. 

The  secretary  tittered. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,  except  that  it  must 
be  a  superlative  of  some  sort.  The  letter  con 
tinues  : 

Please  freight  it  with  a  couple  of  thousand-dollar 
bills  and  let  it  go.  If  you  do  I  wont  never  annoy  you 
no  more.  If  you  dont  you  will  be  sorry. 

136 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

"That  is  all.  It  is  unsigned.  I  thought  it 
would  amuse  you." 

"Has  the  pigeon  come*?"  Peter  Winn  de 
manded. 

"I  'm  sure  I  never  thought  to  enquire." 

"Then  do  so." 

In  five  minutes  the  secretary  was  back. 

"Yes,  sir.     It  came  this  morning." 

"Then  bring  it  in." 

The  secretary  was  inclined  to  take  the  affair 
as  a  practical  joke,  but  Peter  Winn,  after  an  ex 
amination  of  the  pigeon,  thought  otherwise. 

"Look  at  it,"  he  said,  stroking  and  handling  it. 
"See  the  length  of  the  body  and  that  elongated 
neck.  A  proper  carrier.  I  doubt  if  I  've  ever 
seen  a  finer  specimen.  Powerfully  winged  and 
muscled.  As  our  unknown  correspondent  re 
marked,  she  is  a  loo-loo.  It's  a  temptation  to 
keep  her." 

The  secretary  titterecl. 

"Why  not?  Surely  you  will  not  let  it  go  back 
to  the  writer  of  that  letter." 

Peter  Winn  shook  his  head. 

"I  '11  answer.  No  man  can  threaten  me,  even 
anonymously  or  in  foolery." 

On  a  slip  of  paper  he  wrote  the  succinct  mes- 
137 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

sage,  "Go  to  hell,"  signed  it,  and  placed  it  in  the 
carrying  apparatus  with  which  the  bird  had  been 
thoughtfully  supplied. 

"Now  we  '11  let  her  loose.  Where  's  my  son? 
I  'd  like  him  to  see  the  flight." 

"He  's  down  in  the  workshop.  He  slept  there 
last  night,  and  had  his  breakfast  sent  down  this 
morning." 

"He'll  break  his  neck  yet,"  Peter  Winn  re 
marked,  half -fiercely,  half-proudly,  as  he  led  the 
way  to  the  veranda. 

Standing  at  the  head  of  the  broad  steps,  he 
tossed  the  pretty  creature  outward  and  upward. 
She  caught  herself  with  a  quick  beat  of  wings, 
fluttered  about  undecidedly  for  a  space,  then  rose 
in  the  air. 

Again,  high  up,  there  seemed  indecision;  then, 
apparently  getting  her  bearings,  she  headed  east, 
over  the  oak-trees  that  dotted  the  park-like 
grounds. 

"Beautiful,  beautiful,"  Peter  Winn  murmured. 
"I  almost  wish  I  had  her  back." 

But  Peter  Winn  was  a  very  busy  man,  with 
such  large  plans  in  his  head  and  with  so  many 
reins  in  his  hands  that  he  quickly  forgot  the  in 
cident.  Three  nights  later  the  left  wing  of  his 

138 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

country  house  was  blown  up.  It  was  not  a  heavy 
explosion,  and  nobody  was  hurt,  though  the  wing 
itself  was  ruined.  Most  of  the  windows  of  the 
rest  of  the  house  were  broken,  and  there  was  a 
deal  of  general  damage.  By  the  first  ferry  boat 
of  the  morning  half  a  dozen  San  Francisco  detec 
tives  arrived,  and  several  hours  later  the  secretary, 
in  high  excitement,  erupted  on  Peter  Winn. 

"It's  come!"  the  secretary  gasped,  the  sweat 
beading  his  forehead  and  his  eyes  bulging  behind 
their  glasses. 

"What  has  come?'  Peter  demanded. 

"It— the— the  loo-loo  bird!" 

Then  the  financier  understood. 

"Have  you  gone  over  the  mail  yet*?" 

"I  was  just  going  over  it,  sir." 

"Then  continue,  and  see  if  you  can  find  an 
other  letter  from  our  mysterious  friend,  the  pigeon 
fancier." 

The  letter  came  to  light.     It  read : 

Mr.  Peter  Winn, 

HONORABLE  SIR  :  Now  dont  be  a  fool.  If  you  'd 
came  through,  your  shack  would  not  have  blew  up — 
I  beg  to  inform  you  respectfully,  am  sending  same 
pigeon.  Take  good  care  of  same,  thank  you.  Put 
five  one  thousand  dollar  bills  on  her  and  let  her  go. 

139 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

Dont  feed  her.  Dont  try  to  follow  bird.  She  is  wise 
to  the  way  now  and  makes  better  time.  If  you  dont 
come  through,  watch  out." 

Peter  Winn  was  genuinely  angry.  This  time 
he  indited  no  message  for  the  pigeon  to  carry. 
Instead,  he  called  in  the  detectives,  and,  under 
their  advice,  weighted  the  pigeon  heavily  with 
shot.  Her  previous  flight  having  been  eastward 
toward  the  bay,  the  fastest  motor-boat  in  Tiburon 
was  commissioned  to  take  up  the  chase  if  it  led 
out  over  the  water. 

But  too  much  shot  had  been  put  on  the  carrier, 
and  she  was  exhausted  before  the  shore  was 
reached.  Then  the  mistake  was  made  of  putting 
too  little  shot  on  her,  and  she  rose  high  in  the  air, 
got  her  bearings  and  started  eastward  across  San 
Francisco  Bay.  She  flew  straight  over  Angel 
Island,  and  here  the  motor-boat  lost  her,  for  it 
had  to  go  around  the  island. 

That  night,  armed  guards  patrolled  the  grounds. 
But  there  was  no  explosion.  Yet,  in  the  early 
morning  Peter  Winn  learned  by  telephone  that 
his  sister's  home  in  Alameda  had  been  burned  to 
the  ground.  Two  days  later  the  pigeon  was  back 
again,  coming  this  time  by  freight  in  what  had 

140 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

seemed  a  barrel  of  potatoes.     Also  came  another 
letter : 

Mr.  Peter  Winn, 

RESPECTABLE  SIR:  It  was  me  that  fixed  yr  sisters 
house.  You  have  raised  hell,  aint  you.  Send  ten 
thousand  now.  Going  up  all  the  time.  Dont  put  any 
more  handicap  weights  on  that  bird.  You  sure  cant 
follow  her,  and  its  cruelty  to  animals. 

Peter  Winn  was  ready  to  acknowledge  himself 
beaten.  The  detectives  were  powerless,  and 
Peter  did  not  know  where  next  the  man  would 
strike — perhaps  at  the  lives  of  those  near  and 
dear  to  him.  He  even  telephoned  to  San  Fran 
cisco  for  ten  thousand  dollars  in  bills  of  large  de 
nomination.  But  Peter  had  a  son,  Peter  Winn, 
Junior,  with  the  same  firm-set  jaw  as  his  father's, 
and  the  same  knitted,  brooding  determination  in 
his  eyes.  He  was  only  twenty-six,  but  he  was  all 
man,  a  secret  terror  and  delight  to  the  financier, 
who  alternated  between  pride  in  his  son's  aero 
plane  feats  and  fear  for  an  untimely  and  terribU 
end. 

"Hold  on,  father,  don't  send  that  money,"  said 
Peter  Winn,  Junior.  "Number  Eight  is  ready, 
and  I  know  I  've  at  last  got  that  reefing  device 

141 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

down  fine.  It  will  work,  and  it  will  revolu 
tionize  flying.  Speed — that 's  what 's  needed, 
and  so  are  the  large  sustaining  surfaces  for  get 
ting  started  and  for  altitude.  I  've  got  them  both. 
Once  I  'm  up  I  reef  down.  There  it  is.  The 
smaller  the  sustaining  surface,  the  higher  the 
speed.  That  was  the  law  discovered  by  Langley. 
And  I  've  applied  it.  I  can  rise  when  the  air  is 
calm  and  full  of  holes,  and  I  can  rise  when  its 
boiling,  and  by  my  control  of  my  plane  areas  I 
can  come  pretty  close  to  making  any  speed  I  want 
— especially  with  that  new  Sangster-Endholm  en 
gine." 

"You  '11  come  pretty  close  to  breaking  your 
neck  one  of  these  days,"  was  his  father's  encourag 
ing  remark. 

"Dad,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  '11  come  pretty  close 
to — ninety  miles  an  hour — Yes,  and  a  hundred. 
Now  listen!  I  was  going  to  make  a  trial  to 
morrow.  But  it  won't  take  two  hours  to  start  to 
day.  I  '11  tackle  it  this  afternoon.  Keep  that 
money.  Give  me  the  pigeon  and  I  '11  follow  her 
to  her  loft  wherever  it  is.  Hold  on,  let  me  talk 
to  the  mechanicians." 

He  called  up  the  workshop,  and  in  crisp,  terse 
sentences  gave  his  orders  in  a  way  that  went  to 

142 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

the  older  man's  heart.  Truly,  his  one  son  was  a 
chip  off  the  old  block,  and  Peter  Winn  had  no 
meek  notions  concerning  the  intrinsic  value  of  said 
old  block. 

Timed  to  the  minute,  the  young  man,  two  hours 
later,  was  ready  for  the  start.  In  a  holster  at  his 
hip,  for  instant  use,  cocked  and  with  the  safety 
on,  was  a  large-caliber  automatic  pistol.  With 
a  final  inspection  and  overhauling  he  took  his  seat 
in  the  aeroplane.  He  started  the  engine,  and 
with  a  wild  burr  of  gas  explosions  the  beautiful 
fabric  darted  down  the  launching  ways  and  lifted 
into  the  air.  Circling,  as  he  rose,  to  the  west, 
he  wheeled  about  and  jockeyed  and  maneuvered 
for  the  real  start  of  the  race. 

This  start  depended  on  the  pigeon.  Peter 
Winn  held  it.  Nor  was  it  weighted  with  shot 
this  time.  Instead,  half  a  yard  of  bright  ribbon 
was  firmly  attached  to  its  leg — this  the  more  easily 
to  enable  its  flight  being  followed.  Peter  Winn 
released  it,  and  it  arose  easily  enough  despite  the 
slight  drag  of  the  ribbon.  There  was  no  uncer 
tainty  about  its  movements.  This  was  the  third 
time  it  had  made  this  particular  homing  passage, 
and  it  knew  the  course. 

At    an    altitude    of   several    hundred    feet   it 

H3 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

straightened  out  and  went  due  east.  The  aero 
plane  swerved  into  a  straight  course  from  its  last 
curve  and  followed.  The  race  was  on.  Eeter 
Winn,  looking  up,  saw  that  the  pigeon  was  out 
distancing  the  machine.  Then  he  saw  something 
else.  The  aeroplane  suddenly  and  instantly  be 
came  smaller.  It  had  reefed.  Its  high-speed 
plane-design  was  now  revealed.  Instead  of  the 
generous  spread  of  surface  with  which  it  had  taken 
the  air,  it  was  now  a  lean  and  hawklike  mono 
plane  balanced  on  long  and  exceedingly  narrow 
wings. 

When  young  Winn  reefed  down  so  suddenly, 
he  received  a  surprise.  It  was  his  first  trial  of  the 
new  device,  and  while  he  was  prepared  for  in 
creased  speed  he  was  not  prepared  for  such  an 
astonishing  increase.  It  was  better  than  he 
dreamed,  and,  before  he  knew  it,  he  was  hard  upon 
the  pigeon.  That  little  creature,  frightened  by 
this,  the  most  monstrous  hawk  it  had  ever  seen, 
immediately  darted  upward,  after  the  manner 
of  pigeons  that  strive  always  to  rise  above  a 
hawk. 

In  great  curves  the  monoplane  followed  up 
ward,  higher  and  higher  into  the  blue.  It  was 

144 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

difficult,  from  underneath,  to  see  the  pigeon,  and 
young  Winn  dared  not  lose  it  from  his  sight. 
He  even  shook  out  his  reefs  in  order  to  rise  more 
quickly.  Up,  up,  they  went,  until  the  pigeon, 
true  to  its  instinct,  dropped  and  struck  at  what 
it  took  to  be  the  back  of  its  pursuing  enemy. 
Once  was  enough,  for,  evidently  finding  no  life 
in  the  smooth  cloth  surface  of  the  machine,  it 
ceased  soaring  and  straightened  out  on  its  east 
ward  course. 

A  carrier  pigeon  on  a  passage  can  achieve  a 
high  rate  of  speed,  and  Winn  reefed  again. 
And  again,  to  his  satisfaction,  he  found  that 
he  was  beating  the  pigeon.  But  this  time  he 
quickly  shook  out  a  portion  of  his  reefed  sustain 
ing  surface  and  slowed  down  in  time.  From 
then  on  he  knew  he  had  the  chase  safely  in  hand, 
and  from  then  on  a  chant  rose  to  his  lips  which  he 
continued  to  sing  at  intervals,  and  unconciously, 
for  the  rest  of  the  passage.  It  was:  "Going 
some;  going  some;  what  did  I  tell  you? — going 
some." 

Even  so,  it  was  not  all  plain  sailing.  The  air 
is  an  unstable  medium  at  best,  and,  quite  with 
out  warning,  at  an  acute  angle,  he  entered  an 
aerial  tide  which  he  recognized  as  the  gulf  stream 

145 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

of  wind  that  poured  through  the  drafty-mouthed 
Golden  Gate.  His  right  wing  caught  it  first — 
a  sudden,  sharp  puff  that  lifted  and  tilted  the 
monoplane  and  threatened  to  capsize  it.  But  he 
rode  with  a  sensitive  "loose  curb,"  and  quickly, 
but  not  too  quickly,  he  shifted  the  angles  of  his 
wing-tips,  depressed  the  front  horizontal  rudder, 
and  swung  over  the  rear  vertical  rudder  to  meet 
the  tilting  thrust  of  the  wind.  As  the  machine 
came  back  to  an  even  keel,  and  he  knew  that  he 
was  now  wholly  in  the  invisible  stream,  he  read 
justed  the  wing- tips,  swung  back  the  rudders, 
reefed  a  few  more  yards  of  surface,  and  lit  out 
after  the  pigeon  which  had  drawn  rapidly  away 
from  him  during  the  several  moments  of  his  dis 
comfiture. 

The  pigeon  drove  straight  on  for  the  Alameda 
County  shore,  and  it  was  near  this  shore  that 
Winn  had  another  experience.  He  fell  into  an 
air-hole.  He  had  fallen  into  air-holes  before,  in 
previous  flights,  but  this  was  a  far  larger  one  than 
he  had  ever  encountered.  With  his  eyes  strained 
on  the  ribbon  attached  to  the  pigeon,  by  that 
fluttering  bit  of  color  he  marked  his  fall.  Down 
he  went,  at  the  pit  of  his  stomach  that  old  sink 
ing  sensation  which  he  had  known  as  a  boy  when 

146 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

he  first  negotiated  quick-starting  elevators.  But 
Winn,  among  other  secrets  of  aviation,  had 
learned  that  to  go  up  it  was  sometimes  necessary 
first  to  go  down.  The  air  had  refused  to  hold 
him.  Instead  of  struggling  futilely  and  peril 
ously  against  this  lack  of  sustension,  he  yielded 
to  it.  With  steady  head  and  hand,  he  depressed 
the  forward  horizontal  rudder — just  recklessly 
enough  and  not  a  fraction  more — and  the  mono 
plane  dived  headforemost  and  sharply  down  the 
void.  It  was  falling  with  the  keenness  of  a 
knife-blade.  Every  instant  the  speed  accelerated 
frightfully.  Thus  he  accumulated  the  momen 
tum  that  would  save  him.  But  few  instants  were 
required,  when,  abruptly  shifting  the  double  hor 
izontal  rudders  forward  and  astern,  he  shot  up 
ward  on  the  tense  and  straining  plane  and  out 
of  the  pit. 

At  an  altitude  of  five  hundred  feet,  the  pigeon 
drove  on  over  the  town  of  Berkeley  and  lifted  its 
flight  to  the  Contra  Costa  hills.  Young  Winn 
noted  the  campus  and  buildings  of  the  University 
of  California — his  university — as  he  rose  after  the 
pigeon. 

Once  more,  on  those  Contra  Costa  hills,  he 
nearly  came  to  grief.  The  pigeon  was  now  fly- 

H7 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

ing  low,  and  where  a  grove  of  eucalyptus  pre 
sented  a  solid  front  to  the  wind,  the  bird  was  sud 
denly  sent  fluttering  wildly  upward  for  a  distance 
of  a  hundred  feet.  Winn  knew  what  it  meant.  It 
had  been  caught  in  an  air-surf  that  beat  upward 
hundreds  of  feet  where  the  fresh  west  wind  smote 
the  upstanding  wall  of  the  grove.  He  reefed 
hastily  to  the  uttermost,  and  at  the  same  time  de 
pressed  the  angle  of  his  flight  to  meet  that  upward 
surge.  Nevertheless,  the  monoplane  was  tossed 
fully  three  hundred  feet  before  the  danger  was 
left  astern. 

Two  more  ranges  of  hills  the  pigeon  crossed, 
and  then  Winn  saw  it  dropping  down  to  a  land 
ing  where  a  small  cabin  stood  in  a  hillside  clear 
ing.  He  blessed  that  clearing.  Not  only  was 
it  good  for  alighting,  but,  on  account  of  the  steep 
ness  of  the  slope,  it  was  just  the  thing  for  rising 
again  into  the  air. 

A  man,  reading  a  newspaper,  had  just  started 
up  at  the  sight  of  the  returning  pigeon,  when  he 
heard  the  burr  of  Winn's  engine  and  saw  the  huge 
monoplane,  with  all  surfaces  set,  drop  down  upon 
him,  stop  suddenly  on  an  air-cushion  manufac 
tured  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  by  a  shift  of  the 
horizontal  rudders,  glide  a  few  yards,  strike  the 

148 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

ground,  and  come  to  rest  not  a  score  of  feet  away 
from  him.  But  when  he  saw  a  young  man, 
calmly  sitting  in  the  machine  and  leveling  a  pistol 
at  him,  the  man  turned  to  run.  Before  he  could 
make  the  corner  of  the  cabin,  a  bullet  through  the 
leg  brought  him  down  in  a  sprawling  fall. 

"What  do  you  want*?"  he  demanded  sullenly, 
as  the  other  stood  over  him. 

"I  want  to  take  you  for  a  ride  in  my  new  ma 
chine,"  Winn  answered.  "Believe  me,  she  is  a 
loo-loo." 

The  man  did  not  argue  long,  for  this  strange 
visitor  had  most  convincing  ways.  Under  Whin's 
instructions,  covered  all  the  time  by  the  pistol, 
the  man  improvised  a  tourniquet  and  applied  it 
to  his  wounded  leg.  Winn  helped  him  to  a  seat 
in  the  machine,  then  went  to  the  pigeon-loft  and 
took  possession  of  the  bird  with  the  ribbon  still 
fast  to  its  leg. 

A  very  tractable  prisoner,  the  man  proved. 
Once  up  in  the  air,  he  sat  close,  in  an  ecstasy 
of  fear.  An  adept  at  winged  blackmail,  he  had 
no  aptitude  for  wings  himself,  and  when  he  gazed 
down  at  the  flying  land  and  water  far  beneath 
him,  he  did  not  feel  moved  to  attack  his  captor, 
now  defenseless,  both  hands  occupied  with  flight. 

149 


WINGED  BLACKMAIL 

Instead,  the  only  way  the  man  felt  moved  was 
to  sit  closer. 

Peter  Winn,  Senior,  scanning  the  heavens  with 
powerful  glasses,  saw  the  monoplane  leap  into 
view  and  grow  large  over  the  rugged  backbone  of 
Angel  Island.  Several  minutes  later  he  cried  out 
to  the  waiting  detectives  that  the  machine  carried 
a  passenger.  Dropping  swiftly  and  piling  up  an 
abrupt  air-cushion,  the  monoplane  landed. 

"That  reefing  device  is  a  winner!"  young  Winn 
cried,  as  he  climbed  out.  "Did  you  see  me  at  the 
start?  I  almost  ran  over  the  pigeon.  Going 
some,  dad!  Going  some!  What  did  I  tell  you? 
Going  some!" 

"But  who  is  that  with  you?"  his  father  de 
manded. 

The  young  man  looked  back  at  his  prisoner  and 
remembered. 

"Why,  that 's  the  pigeon-fancier,"  he  said.  "I 
guess  the  officers  can  take  care  of  him." 

Peter  Winn  gripped  his  son's  hand  in  grim 
silence,  and  fondled  the  pigeon  which  his  son  had 
passed  to  him.  Again  he  fondled  the  pretty  crea 
ture.  Then  he  spoke. 

"Exhibit  A,  for  the  People,"  he  said. 
150 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

ARRANGEMENTS  quite  extensive  had  been 
made  for  the  celebration  of  Christmas  on 
the  yacht  Samoset.  Not  having  been  in  any 
civilized  port  for  months,  the  stock  of  provisions 
boasted  few  delicacies;  yet  Minnie  Duncan  had 
managed  to  devise  real  feasts  for  cabin  and  fore 
castle. 

"Listen,  Boyd,"  she  told  her  husband.  "Here 
.are  the  menus.  For  the  cabin,  raw  bonita  native 
style,  turtle  soup,  omelette  a  la  Samoset — " 

"What  the  dickens4?"  Boyd  Duncan  inter 
rupted. 

"Well,  if  you  must  know,  I  found  a  tin  of 
mushrooms  and  a  package  of  egg-powder  which 
had  fallen  down  behind  the  locker,  and  there  are 
other  things  as  well  that  will  go  into  it.  But  don't 
interrupt.  Boiled  yam,  fried  taro,  alligator  pear 
salad — there,  you  've  got  me  all  mixed,  Then 
I  found  a  last  delectable  half-pound  of  dried 
squid.  There  will  be  baked  beans  Mexican,  if 
I  can  hammer  it  into  Toyama's  head;  also,  baked 
papaia  with  Marquesan  honey,  and,  lastly,  a  won- 

153 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

derful  pie  the  secret  of  which  Toyama  refuses  to 
divulge." 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  possible  to  concoct  a  punch 
or  a  cocktail  out  of  trade  rum?"  Duncan  muttered 
gloomily. 

"Oh!  I  forgot!     Come  with  me." 

His  wife  caught  his  hand  and  led  him  through 
the  small  connecting  door  to  her  tiny  stateroom. 
Still  holding  his  hand,  she  fished  in  the  depths  of 
a  hat-locker  and  brought  forth  a  pint  bottle  of 
champagne. 

"The  dinner  is  complete!"  he  cried. 

"Wait." 

She  fished  again,  and  was  rewarded  with  a 
silver-mounted  whisky  flask.  She  held  it  to  the 
light  of  a  port-hole,  and  the  liquor  showed  a  quar 
ter  of  the  distance  from  the  bottom. 

"I  've  been  saving  it  for  weeks,"  she  explained. 
"And  there  's  enough  for  you  and  Captain  Dett- 


mar." 


"Two   mighty   small   drinks,"    Duncan   com 
plained. 

"There  would  have  been  more,  but  I  gave  a 
drink  to  Lorenzo  when  he  was  sick." 

"Might  have  given  him  rum,"  Duncan  growled 
facetiously. 

154 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

"The  nasty  stuff!  For  a  sick  man!  Don't 
be  greedy,  Boyd.  And  I  'm  glad  there  is  n't  any 
more,  for  Captain  Dettmar's  sake.  Drinking  al 
ways  makes  him  irritable.  And  now  for  the 
men's  dinner.  Soda  crackers,  sweet  cakes, 
candy—" 

"Substantial,  I  must  say." 

"Do  hush.  Rice  and  curry,  yam,  taro,  bonita, 
of  course,  a  big  cake  Toyama  is  making,  young 

Pig-' 

"Oh,  I  say,"  he  protested. 

v  "It  is  all  right,  Boyd.  We  '11  be  in  Attu-Attu 
in  three  days.  Besides,  it's  my  pig.  That  old 
chief  what-ever-his-name  distinctly  presented  it 
to  me.  You  saw  him  yourself.  And  then  two 
tins  of  bullamacow.  That 's  their  dinner.  And 
now  about  the  presents.  Shall  we  wait  until  to 
morrow,  or  give  them  this  evening^" 

"Christmas  Eve,  by  all  means,"  was  the  man's 
judgment.  "We  '11  call  all  hands  at  eight  bells; 
I  '11  give  them  a  tot  of  rum  all  around,  and  then 
you  give  the  presents.  Come  on  up  on  deck. 
It 's  stifling  down  here.  I  hope  Lorenzo  has  bet 
ter  luck  with  the  dynamo;  without  the  fans  there 
won't  be  much  sleeping  to-night  if  we  're  driven 
below." 

155 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

They  passed  through  the  small  main-cabin, 
climbed  a  steep  companion  ladder,  and  emerged 
on  deck.  The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  promise 
was  for  a  clear  tropic  night.  The  Samoset^  with 
fore-  and  main-sail  winged  out  on  either  side,  was 
slipping  a  lazy  four-knots  through  the  smooth  sea. 
Through  the  engine-room  skylight  came  a  sound 
of  hammering.  They  strolled  aft  to  where  Cap 
tain  Dettmar,  one  foot  on  the  rail,  was  oiling  the 
gear  of  the  patent  log.  At  the  wheel  stood  a  tall 
South  Sea  Islander,  clad  in  white  undershirt  and 
scarlet  hip-cloth. 

Boyd  Duncan  was  an  original.  At  least  that 
was  the  belief  of  his  friends.  Of  comfortable 
fortune,  with  no  need  to  do  anything  but  take 
his  comfort,  he  elected  to  travel  about  the  world 
in  outlandish  and  most  uncomfortable  ways.  In 
cidentally,  he  had  ideas  about  coral-reefs,  dis 
agreed  profoundly  with  Darwin  on  that  subject, 
had  voiced  his  opinion  in  several  monographs  and 
one  book,  and  was  now  back  at  his  hobby,  cruising 
the  South  Seas  in  a  tiny,  thirty-ton  yacht  and 
studying  reef-formations. 

His  wife,  Minnie  Duncan,  was  also  declared  an 
original,  inasmuch  as  she  joyfully  shared  his 
vagabond  wanderings.  Among  other  things,  in 

156 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

the  six  exciting  years  of  their  marriage,  she  had 
climbed  Chimborazo  with  him,  made  a  three-thou 
sand-mile  winter  journey  with  dogs  and  sleds  in 
Alaska,  ridden  a  horse  from  Canada  to  Mexico, 
cruised  the  Mediterranean  in  a  ten-ton  yawl,  and 
canoed  from  Germany  to  the  Black  Sea  across  the 
heart  of  Europe.  They  were  a  royal  pair  of  wan- 
derlusters,  he,  big  and  broad-shouldered,  she  a 
small,  brunette,  and  happy  woman,  whose  one 
hundred  and  fifteen  pounds  were  all  grit  and 
endurance,  and,  withal,  pleasing  to  look 
upon. 

The  Samoset  had  been  a  trading  schooner,  when 
Duncan  bought  her  in  San  Francisco  and  made 
alterations.  Her  interior  was  wholly  rebuilt,  so 
that  the  hold  became  main-cabin  and  staterooms, 
while  abaft  amidships  were  installed  engines,  a 
dynamo,  an  ice  machine,  storage  batteries,  and, 
far  in  the  stern,  gasoline  tanks.  Necessarily,  she 
carried  a  small  crew.  Boyd,  Minnie,  and  Cap 
tain  Dettmar  were  the  only  whites  on  board, 
though  Lorenzo,  the  small  and  greasy  engineer, 
laid  a  part  claim  to  white,  being  a  Portuguese 
half-caste.  A  Japanese  served  as  cook,  and  a 
Chinese  as  cabin  boy.  Four  white  sailors  had 
constituted  the  original  crew  for'ard,  but  one  by 

157 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

one  they  had  yielded  to  the  charms  of  palm-wav 
ing  South  Sea  isles  and  been  replaced  by  islanders. 
Thus,  one  of  the  dusky  sailors  hailed  from  Easter 
Island,  a  second  from  the  Carolines,  a  third  from 
the  Paumotus,  while  the  fourth  was  a  gigantic 
Samoan.  At  sea,  Boyd  Duncan,  himself  a  navi 
gator,  stood  a  mate's  watch  with  Captain  Dett- 
mar,  and  both  of  them  took  a  wheel  or  lookout  oc 
casionally.  On  a  pinch,  Minnie  herself  could 
take  a  wheel,  and  it  was  on  pinches  that  she 
proved  herself  more  dependable  at  steering  than 
did  the  native  sailors. 

At  eight  bells,  all  hands  assembled  at  the  wheel, 
and  Boyd  Duncan  appeared  with  a  black  bottle 
and  a  mug.  The  rum  he  served  out  himself,  half 
a  mug  of  it  to  each  man.  They  gulped  the  stuff 
down  with  many  facial  expressions  of  delight,  fol 
lowed  by  loud  lip-smackings  of  approval,  though 
the  liquor  was  raw  enough  and  corrosive  enough 
to  burn  their  mucous  membranes.  All  drank  ex 
cept  Lee  Goom,  the  abstemious  cabin  boy.  This 
rite  accomplished,  they  waited  for  the  next,  the 
present-giving.  Generously  molded  on  Polyne 
sian  lines,  huge-bodied  and  heavy-muscled,  they 
were  nevertheless  like  so  many  children,  laughing 
merrily  at  little  things,  their  eager  black  eyes 

158 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

flashing  in  the  lantern  light  as  their  big  bodies 
swayed    to    the    heave    and    roll    of    the    ship. 

Calling  each  by  name,  Minnie  gave  the  pres 
ents  out,  accompanying  each  presentation  with 
some  happy  remark  that  added  to  the  glee.  There 
were  trade  watches,  clasp  knives,  amazing  assort 
ments  of  fish-hooks  in  packages,  plug  tobacco, 
matches,  and  gorgeous  strips  of  cotton  for  loin 
cloths  all  around.  That  Boyd  Duncan  was  liked 
by  them  was  evidenced  by  the  roars  of  laughter 
with  which  they  greeted  his  slightest  joking  allu 
sion. 

Captain  Dettmar,  white-faced,  smiling  only 
when  his  employer  chanced  to  glance  at  him, 
leaned  against  the  wheel-box,  looking  on.  Twice, 
he  left  the  group  and  went  below,  remaining  there 
but  a  minute  each  time.  Later,  in  the  main 
cabin,  when  Lorenzo,  Lee  Goom  and  Toyama  re 
ceived  their  presents,  he  disappeared  into  his  state 
room  twice  again.  For  of  all  times,  the  devil  that 
slumbered  in  Captan  Dettmar's  soul  chose  this 
particular  time  of  good  cheer  to  awaken.  Per 
haps  it  was  not  entirely  the  devil's  fault,  for  Cap 
tain  Dettmar,  privily  cherishing  a  quart  of 
whisky  for  many  weeks,  had  selected  Christmas 
Eve  for  broaching  it. 

159 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

It  was  still  early  in  the  evening — two  bells  had 
just  gone — when  Duncan  and  his  wife  stood  by 
the  cabin  companionway,  gazing  to  windward  and 
canvassing  the  possibility  of  spreading  their  beds 
on  deck.  A  small,  dark  blot  of  cloud,  slowly 
forming  on  the  horizon,  carried  the  threat  of  a 
rain-squall,  and  it  was  this  they  were  discussing 
when  Captain  Dettmar,  coming  from  aft  and 
about  to  go  below,  glanced  at  them  with  sudden 
suspicion.  He  paused,  his  face  working  spasmod 
ically.  Then  he  spoke: 

"You  are  talking  about  me." 

His  voice  was  hoarse,  and  there  was  an  excited 
vibration  in  it.  Minnie  Duncan  started,  then 
glanced  at  her  husband's  immobile  face,  took  the 
cue,  and  remained  silent. 

"I  say  you  were  talking  about  me,"  Captain 
Dettmar  repeated,  this  time  with  almost  a  snarl. 

He  did  not  lurch  nor  betray  the  liquor  on  him  in 
any  way  save  by  the  convulsive  working  of  his 
face. 

"Minnie,  you  'd  better  go  down,"  Duncan  said 
gently.  "Tell  Lee  Goom  we  '11  sleep  below.  It 
won't  be  long  before  that  squall  is  drenching 
things." 

She  took  the  hint  and  left,  delaying  just  long 
160 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

enough  to  give  one  anxious  glance  at  the  dim 
faces  of  the  two  men. 

Duncan  puffed  at  his  cigar  and  waited  till  his 
wife's  voice,  in  talk  with  the  cabin-boy,  came  up 
through  the  open  skylight. 

"Well?"  Duncan  demanded  in  a  low  voice,  but 
sharply. 

"I  said  you  were  talking  about  me.  I  say  it 
again.  Oh,  I  haven't  been  blind.  Day  after 
'day  I  've  seen  the  two  of  you  talking  about  me. 
Why  don't  you  come  out  and  say  it  to  my  face? 
I  know  you  know.  And  I  know  your  mind 's 
made  up  to  discharge  me  at  Attu-Attu." 

"I  am  sorry  you  are  making  such  a  mess  of 
everything,"  was  Duncan's  quiet  reply. 

But  Captain  Dettmar's  mind  was  set  on  trouble. 

"You  know  you  are  going  to  discharge  me. 
You  think  you  are  too  good  to  associate  with  the 
likes  of  me — you  and  your  wife." 

"Kindly  keep  her  out  of  this,"  Duncan  warned. 
"What  do  you  want?" 

"I  want  to  know  what  you  are  going  to  do?" 

"Discharge  you,  after  this,  at  Attu-Attu." 

"You  intended  to,  all  along." 

"On  the  contrary.  It  is  your  present  conduct 
that  compels  me." 

161 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

"You  can't  give  me  that  sort  of  talk." 
"I  can't  retain  a  captain  who  calls  me  a  liar." 
Captain  Dettmar  for  the  moment  was  taken 
aback.     His  face  and  lips  worked,  but  he  could 
say  nothing.     Duncan  coolly  pulled  at  his  cigar 
and  glanced  aft  at  the  rising  cloud  of  squall. 

"Lee  Goom  brought  the  mail  aboard  at  Tahiti," 
Captain  Dettmar  began.  "We  were  hove  short 
then  and  leaving,  you  did  n't  look  at  your  let 
ters  until  we  were  outside,  and  then  it  was  too 
late.  That 's  why  you  did  n't  discharge  me  at 
Tahiti.  Oh,  I  know.  I  saw  the  long  envelope 
when  Lee  Goom  came  over  the  side.  It  was  from 
the  Governor  of  California,  printed  on  the  corner 
for  any  one  to  see.  ,You  'd  been  working  behind 
my  back.  Some  beachcomber  in  Honolulu  had 
whispered  to  you,  and  you  Jd  written  to  the  Gover 
nor  to  find  out.  And  that  was  his  answer  Lee 
Goom  carried  out  to  you.  Why  did  n't  you  come 
to  me  like  a  man*?  .  No,  you  must  play  under 
hand  with  me,  knowing  that  this  billet  was  the 
one  chance  for  me  to  get  on  my  feet  again.  And 
as  soon  as  you  read  the  Governor's  letter  your 
mind  was  made  up  to  get  rid  of  me.  I  've  seen 
it  on  your  face  ever  since  for  all  these  months. 
I  've  seen  the  two  of  you,  polite  as  hell  to  me  all 

162 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

the  time,  and  getting  away  in  corners  and  talking 
about  me  and  that  affair  in  'Frisco." 

"Are  you  done?'  Duncan  asked,  his  voice  low 
and  tense.  "Quite  done?' 

Captain  Dettmar  made  no  answer. 

"Then  I  '11  tell  you  a  few  things.  It  was  pre 
cisely  because  of  that  affair  in  'Frisco  that  I  did 
not  discharge  you  in  Tahiti.  God  knows  you 
gave  me  sufficient  provocation.  I  thought  that 
if  ever  a  man  needed  a  chance  to  rehabilitate  him 
self,  you  were  that  man.  Had  there  been  no 
black  mark  against  you,  I  would  have  discharged 
you  when  I  learned  how  you  were  robbing  me." 

Captain  Dettmar  showed  surprise,  started  to 
interrupt,  then  changed  his  mind. 

"There  was  that  matter  of  the  deck-calking,  the 
bronze  rudder-irons,  the  overhauling  of  the  en 
gine,  the  new  spinnaker  boom,  the  new  davits, 
and  the  repairs  to  the  whale-boat.  You  O  K'd 
the  shipyard  bill.  It  was  four  thousand  one  hun 
dred  and  twenty-two  francs.  By  the  regular 
shipyard  charges  it  ought  not  to  have  been  a  cen 
time  over  twenty-five  hundred  francs — " 

"If  you  take  the  word  of  those  alongshore 
sharks  against  mine — "  the  other  began  thickly. 

"Save  yourself  the  trouble  of  further  lying," 
163 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

Duncan  went  on  coldly.  "I  looked  it  up.  I  got 
Flaubin  before  the  Governor  himself,  and  the  old 
rascal  confessed  to  sixteen  hundred  overcharge. 
Said  you  'd  stuck  him  up  for  it.  Twelve  hun 
dred  went  to  you,  and  his  share  was  four  hundred 
and  the  job.  Don't  interrupt.  I  've  got  his  affi 
davit  below.  Then  was  when  I  would  have  put 
you  ashore,  except  for  the  cloud  you  were  under. 
You  had  to  have  this  one  chance  or  go  clean  to 
hell.  I  gave  you  the  chance.  And  what  have 
you  got  to  say  about  'it  ?" 

"What  did  the  Governor  say*?"  Captain  Dett- 
mar  demanded  truculently. 

"Which  governor?' 

"Of  California.  Did  he  lie  to  you  like  all  the 
rest?" 

"I  '11  tell  you  what  he  said.  He  said  that  you 
had  been  convicted  on  circumstantial  evidence; 
that  that  was  why  you  had  got  life  imprisonment 
instead  of  hanging;  that  you  had  always  stoutly 
maintained  your  innocence;  that  you  were  the 
black  sheep  of  the  Maryland  Dettmars;  that  they 
moved  heaven  and  earth  for  your  pardon;  that 
your  prison  conduct  was  most  exemplary;  that  he 
was  prosecuting  attorney  at  the  time  you  were 
convicted;  that  after  you  had  served  seven  years 

164 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

he  yielded  to  your  family's  plea  and  pardoned 
you;  and  that  in  his  own  mind  existed  a  doubt 
that  you  had  killed  McSweeny." 

There  was  a  pause,  during  which  Duncan  went 
on  studying  the  rising  squall,  while  Captain 
Dettmar's  face  worked  terribly. 

"Well,  the  Governor  was  wrong,"  he  an 
nounced,  with  a  short  laugh.  "I  did  kill 
McSweeny.  I  did  get  the  watchman  drunk  that 
night.  I  beat  McSweeny  to  death  in  his  bunk. 
I  used  the  iron  belaying  pin  that  appeared  in  the 
evidence.  He  never  had  a  chance.  I  beat  him 
to  a  jelly.  Do  you  want  the  details'?" 

Duncan  looked  at  him  in  the  curious  way  one 
looks  at  any  monstrosity,  but  made  no  reply. 

"Oh,  I  'm  not  afraid  to  tell  you,"  Captain 
Dettmar  blustered  on.  "There  are  no  witnesses. 
Besides,  I  am  a  free  man  now.  I  am  pardoned, 
and  by  God  they  can  never  put  me  back  in  that 
hole  again.  I  broke  McS weeny's  jaw  with  the 
first  blow.  He  was  lying  on  his  back  asleep. 
He  said,  'My  God,  Jim!  My  God!'  It  was 
funny  to  see  his  broken  jaw  wabble  as  he  said  it. 
Then  I  smashed  him  ...  I  say,  do  you 
want  the  rest  of  the  details'?" 

"Is  that  all  you  have  to  say?"  was  the  answer. 

165 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

"Isn't  it  enough?"  Captain  Dettmar  retorted 

"It  is  enough." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 

"Put  you  ashore  at  Attu-Attu." 

"And  in  the  meantime?" 

"In  the  meantime  .  .  ."  Duncan  paused. 
An  increase  of  weight  in  the  wind  rippled  his  hair. 
The  stars  overhead  vanished,  and  the  Samoset 
swung  four  points  off  her  course  in  the  careless 
steersman's  hands.  "In  the  meantime  throw  your 
halyards  down  on  deck  and  look  to  your  wheel. 
I  '11  call  the  men." 

The  next  moment  the  squall  burst  upon  them. 
Captain  Dettmar,  springing  aft,  lifted  the  coiled 
mainsail  halyards  from  their  pins  and  threw  them, 
ready  to  run,  on  the  deck.  The  three  islanders 
swarmed  from  the  tiny  forecastle,  two  of  them 
leaping  to  the  halyards  and  holding  by  a  single 
turn,  while  the  third  fastened  down  the  engine- 
room  companion  and  swung  the  ventilators 
around.  Below,  Lee  Goom  and  Toyama  were 
lowering  skylight  covers  and  screwing  up  dead- 
eyes.  Duncan  pulled  shut  the  cover  of  the  com 
panion  scuttle,  and  held  on,  waiting,  the  first 
drops  of  rain  pelting  his  face,  while  the  Samoset 
leaped  violently  ahead,  at  the  same  time  heeling 

166 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

first  to  starboard  then  to  port  as  the  gusty  pres 
sures  caught  her  winged-out  sails. 

All  waited.  But  there  was  no  need  to  lower 
away  on  the  run.  The  power  went  out  of  the 
wind,  and  the  tropic  rain  poured  a  deluge  over 
everything.  Then  it  was,  the  danger  past,  and 
as  the  Kanakas  began  to  coil  the  halyards  back  on 
the  pins,  that  Boyd  Duncan  went  below. 

"All  right,"  he  called  in  cheerily  to  his  wife. 
"Only  a  puff." 

"And  Captain  Dettmar?'  she  queried. 

"Has  been  drinking,  that  is  all.  I  shall  get 
rid  of  him  at  Attu-Attu." 

But  before  Duncan  climbed  into  his  bunk,  he 
strapped  around  himself,  against  the  skin  and  un 
der  his  pajama  coat,  a  heavy  automatic  pistol. 

He  fell  asleep  almost  immediately,  for  his  was 
the  gift  of  perfect  relaxation.  He  did  things 
tensely,  in  the  way  savages  do,  but  the  instant 
the  need  passed  he  relaxed,  mind  and  body.  So 
it  was  that  he  slept,  while  the  rain  still  poured 
on  deck  and  the  yacht  plunged  and  rolled  in  the 
brief,  sharp  sea  caused  by  the  squall. 

He  awoke  with  a  feeling  of  suffocation  and 
heaviness.  The  electric  fans  had  stopped,  and 
the  air  was  thick  and  stifling.  Mentally  cursing 

167 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

all  Lorenzos  and  storage  batteries,  he  heard  his 
wife  moving  in  the  adjoining  stateroom  and  pass 
out  into  the  main  cabin.  Evidently  heading  for 
the  fresher  air  on  deck,  he  thought,  and  decided 
it  was  a  good  example  to  imitate.  Putting  on  his 
slippers  and  tucking  a  pillow  and  a  blanket  under 
his  arm,  he  followed  her.  As  he  was  about  to 
emerge  from  the  companion  way,  the  ship's  clock 
in  the  cabin  began  to  strike  and  he  stopped  to 
listen.  Four  bells  sounded.  It  was  two  in  the 
morning.  From  without  came  the  creaking  of 
the  gaff-jaw  against  the  mast.  The  Samoset 
rolled  and  righted  on  a  sea,  and  in  the  light  breeze 
her  canvas  gave  forth  a  hollow  thrum. 

He  was  just  putting  his  foot  out  on  the  damp 
deck  when  he  heard  his  wife  scream.  It  was  a 
startled  frightened  scream  that  ended  in  a  splash 
overside.  He  leaped  out  and  ran  aft.  In  the 
dim  starlight  he  could  make  out  her  head  and 
shoulders  disappearing  astern  in  the  lazy  wake. 

"What  was  it?"  Captain  Dettmar,  who  was  at 
the  wheel,  asked. 

"Mrs.  Duncan,"  was  Duncan's  reply,  as  he  tore 
the  life-buoy  from  its  hook  an'd  flung  it  aft. 
"Jibe  over  to  starboard  and  come  up  on  the 
wind !"  he  commanded. 

1168 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

And  then  Boyd  Duncan  made  a  mistake.  He 
dived  overboard. 

When  he  came  up,  he  glimpsed  the  blue-light 
on  the  buoy,  which  had  ignited  automatically 
when  it  struck  the  water.  He  swam  for  it,  and 
found  Minnie  had  reached  it  first. 

"Hello,"  he  said.     "Just  trying  to  keep  cool?" 

"Oh,  Boyd !"  was  her  answer,  and  one  wet  hand 
reached  out  and  touched  his. 

The  blue  light,  through  deterioration  or  dam 
age,  flickered  out.  As  they  lifted  on  the  smooth 
crest  of  a  wave,  Duncan  turned  to  look  where  the 
Samoset  made  a  vague  blur  in  the  darkness.  No 
lights  showed,  but  there  was  noise  of  confusion. 
He  could  hear  Captain  Dettmar's  shouting  above 
the  cries  of  the  others. 

"I  must  say  he  's  taking  his  time,"  Duncan 
grumbled.  "Why  doesn't  he  jibe?  There  she 
goes  now." 

They  could  hear  the  rattle  of  the  boom  tackle 
blocks  as  the  sail  was  eased  across. 

"That  was  the  mainsail,"  he  muttered.  "Jibed 
to  port  when  I  told  him  starboard." 

Again  they  lifted  on  a  wave,  and  again  and 
again,  ere  they  could  make  out  the  distant  green 
of  the  Samo set's  starboard  light.  But  instead  of 

169 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

remaining  stationary,  in  token  that  the  yacht  was 
coming  toward  them,  it  began  moving  across  their 
field  of  vision. 

Duncan  swore.  "What's  the  lubber  holding 
over  there  for*?"  he  demanded.  "He's  got  his 
compass.  He  knows  our  bearing." 

But  the  green  light,  which  was  all  they  could 
see,  and  which  they  could  see  only  when  they 
were  on  top  of  a  wave,  moved  steadily  away  from 
them,  withal  it  was  working  up  to  windward,  and 
grew  dim  and  dimmer.  Duncan  called  out 
loudly  and  repeatedly,  and  each  time,  in  the  in 
tervals,  they  could  hear,  very  faintly,  the  voice 
of  Captain  Dettmar  shouting  orders. 

"How  can  he  hear  me  with  such  a  racket?" 
Duncan  complained. 

"He  's  doing  it  so  the  crew  won't  hear  you," 
was  Minnie's  answer. 

There  was  something  in  the  quiet  way  she  said 
it  that  caught  her  husband's  attention. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  he  is  not  trying  to  pick  us  up," 
she  went  on  in  the  same  composed  voice.  "He 
threw  me  overboard." 

"You  are  not  making  a  mistake?" 

"How  could  I?  I  was  at  the  main  rigging, 
170 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

looking  to  see  if  any  more  rain  threatened.  He 
must  have  left  the  wheel  and  crept  behind  me. 
I  was  holding  on  to  a  stay  with  one  hand.  He 
gripped  my  hand  free  from  behind  and  threw  me 
over.  It 's  too  bad  you  did  n't  know,  or  else  you 
would  have  staid  aboard." 

Duncan  groaned,  but  said  nothing  for  several 
minutes.  The  green  light  changed  the  direction 
of  its  course. 

"She  's  gone  about,"  he  announced.  "You  are 
right.  He  's  deliberately  working  around  us  and 
to  windward.  Up  wind  they  can  never  hear  me. 
But  here  goes." 

He  called  at  minute  intervals  for  a  long  time. 
The  green  light  disappeared,  being  replaced  by 
the  red,  showing  that  the  yacht  had  gone  about 
again. 

"Minnie,"  he  said  finally,  "it  pains  me  to  tell 
you,  but  you  married  a  fool.  Only  a  fool  would 
have  gone  overboard  as  I  did." 

"What  chance  have  we  of  being  picked 
up  ...  by  some  other  vessel,  I  mean*?"  she 
asked. 

"About  one  in  ten  thousand,  or  ten  thousand 
million.  Not  a  steamer  route  nor  trade  route 
crosses  this  stretch  of  ocean.  And  there  are  n't 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

any  whalers  knocking  about  the  South  Seas. 
There  might  be  a  stray  trading  schooner  running 
across  from  Tutuwanga.  But  I  happen  to  know 
that  island  is  visited  only  once  a  year.  A  chance 
in  a  million  is  ours." 

"And  we  '11  play  that  chance,"  she  rejoined 
stoutly. 

"You  are  a  joy!"  His  hand  lifted  hers  to  his 
lips.  "And  Aunt  Elizabeth  always  wondered 
what  I  saw  in  you.  Of  course  we  '11  play  that 
chance.  And  we  '11  win  it,  too.  To  happen 
otherwise  would  be  unthinkable.  Here  goes." 

He  slipped  the  heavy  pistol  from  his  belt  and 
let  it  sink  into  the  sea.  The  belt,  however,  he  re 
tained. 

"Now  you  get  inside  the  buoy  and  get  some 
sleep.  Duck  under." 

She  ducked  obediently,  and  came  up  inside  the 
floating  circle.  He  fastened  the  straps  for  her, 
then,  with  the  pistol  belt,  buckled  himself  across 
one  shoulder  to  the  outside  of  the  buoy. 

"We  're  good  for  all  day  to-morrow,"  he  said. 
"Thank  God  the  water's  warm.  It  won't  be  a 
hardship  for  the  first  twenty-hour  hours,  anyway. 
And  if  we  're  not  picked  up  by  nightfall,  we  've 
just  got  to  hang  on  for  another  day,  that's  all." 

172 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

For  half  an  hour  they  maintained  silence. 
Duncan,  his  head  resting  on  the  arm  that  was  on 
the  buoy,  seemed  asleep. 

"Boyd?'  Minnie  said  softly. 

"Thought  you  were  asleep,"  he  growled. 
-     "Boyd,  if  we  don't  come  through  this — " 

"Stow  that!"  he  broke  in  ungallantly.  "Of 
course  we  're  coming  through.  There  is  n't  a 
doubt  of  it.  Somewhere  on  this  ocean  is  a  ship 
that 's  heading  right  for  us.  You  wait  and  see. 
Just  the  same  I  wish  my  brain  were  equipped  with 
wireless.  Now  I  'm  going  to  sleep,  if  you  don't." 

But  for  once,  sleep  baffled  him.  An  hour  later 
he  heard  Minnie  stir  and  knew  she  was  awake. 

"Say,  do  you  know  what  I  've  been  thinking*?" 
she  asked. 

"No;  what'?" 

"That  I  '11  wish  you  a  Merry  Christmas." 

"By  George,  I  never  thought  of  it.  Of  course 
it 's  Christmas  Day.  We  '11  have  many  more  of 
them,  too.  And  do  you  know  what  I  've  been 
thinking?  What  a  confounded  shame  we  're 
done  out  of  our  Christmas  dinner.  Wait  till  I 
lay  hands  on  Dettmar.  I  '11  take  it  out  of  him. 
And  it  won't  be  with  an  iron  belaying  pin  either. 
Just  two  bunches  of  naked  knuckles,  that 's  all." 

173 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

Despite  his  facetiousness,  Boyd  Duncan  had 
little  hope.  He  knew  well  enough  the  meaning 
of  one  chance  in  a  million,  and  was  calmly  cer 
tain  that  his  wife  and  he  had  entered  upon  their 
last  few  living  hours — hours  that  were  inevitably 
bound  to  be  black  and  terrible  with  tragedy. 

The  tropic  sun  rose  in  a  cloudless  sky.  Noth 
ing  was  to  be  seen.  The  Samoset  was  beyond  the 
sea-rim.  As  the  sun  rose  higher,  Duncan  ripped 
his  pajama  trousers  in  halves  and  fashioned  them 
into  two  rude  turbans.  Soaked  in  sea- water  they 
offset  the  heat-rays. 

"When  I  think  of  that  dinner,  I  'm  really  an 
gry,"  he  complained,  as  he  noted  an  anxious  ex 
pression  threatening  to  set  on  his  wife's  face. 
"And  I  want  you  to  be  with  me  when  I  settle  with 
Dettmar.  I  've  always  been  opposed  to  women 
witnessing  scenes  of  blood,  but  this  is  different. 
It  will  be  a  beating." 

"I  hope  I  don't  break  my  knuckles  on  him,"  he 
added,  after  a  pause. 

Midday  came  and  went,  and  they  floated  on, 
the  center  of  a  narrow  sea-circle.  A  gentle  breath 
of  the  dying  trade-wind  fanned  them,  and  they 
rose  and  fell  monotonously  on  the  smooth  swells 
of  a  perfect  summer  sea.  Once,  a  gunie  spied 

174 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

them,  and  for  half  an  hour  circled  about  them 
with  majestic  sweeps.  And,  once,  a  huge  ray- 
fish,  measuring  a  score  of  feet  across  the  tips, 
passed  within  a  few  yards. 

By  sunset,  Minnie  began  to  rave,  softly,  bab- 
blingly,  like  a  child.  Duncan's  face  grew  hag 
gard  as  he  watched  and  listened,  while  in  his 
mind  he  revolved  plans  of  how  best  to  end  the 
hours  of  agony  that  were  coming.  And,  so  plan 
ning,  as  they  rose  on  a  larger  swell  than  usual,  he 
swept  the  circle  of  the  sea  with  his  eyes,  and  saw 
what  made  him  cry  out. 

"Minnie !"  She  did  not  answer,  and  he  shouted 
her  name  again  in  her  ear,  with  all  the  voice  he 
could  command.  Her  eyes  opened,  in  them  flut 
tered  commingled  consciousness  and  delirium. 
He  slapped  her  hands  and  wrists  till  the  sting  of 
the  blows  roused  her. 

"There  she  is,  the  chance  in  a  million!"  he 
cried.  "A  steamer  at  that,  heading  straight  for 
us !  By  George,  it 's  a  cruiser !  I  have  it ! — the 
Annapolis,  returning  with  those  astronomers  from 
Tutuwanga. 

United  States  Consul  Lingford  was  a  fussy, 
elderly  gentleman,  and  in  the  two  years  of  his 

175 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

service  at  Attu-Attu  had  never  encountered  so  un 
precedented  a  case  as  that  laid  before  him  by  Boyd 
Duncan.  The  latter,  with  his  wife,  had  been 
landed  there  by  the  Annapolis,  which  had 
promptly  gone  on  with  its  cargo  of  astronomers  to 
Fiji. 

"It  was  cold-blooded,  deliberate  attempt  to 
murder,"  said  Consul  Lingford.  "The  law  shall 
take  its  course.  I  don't  know  how  precisely  to 
deal  with  this  Captain  Dettmar,  but  if  he  comes  to 
Attu-Attu,  depend  upon  it  he  shall  be  dealt  with, 
he — ah — shall  be  dealt  with.  In  the  meantime, 
I  shall  read  up  the  law.  And  now,  won't  you 
and  your  good  lady  stop  for  lunch?" 

As  Duncan  accepted  the  invitation,  Minnie, 
who  had  been  glancing  out  of  the  window  at  the 
harbor,  suddenly  leaned  forward  and  touched  her 
husband's  arm.  He  followed  her  gaze,  and  saw 
the  Samoset,  flag  at  half  mast,  rounding  up  and 
dropping  anchor  scarcely  a  hundred  yards  away. 

"There  's  my  boat  now,"  Duncan  said  to  the 
Consul.  "And  there's  the  launch  over  the  side, 
and  Captain  Dettmar  dropping  into  it.  If  I  don't 
miss  my  guess,  he  's  coming  to  report  our  deaths 
to  you." 

The  launch  landed  on  the  white  beach,  and, 

176 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

leaving  Lorenzo  tinkering  with  the  engine,  Cap 
tain  Dettmar  strode  across  the  beach  and  up  the 
path  to  the  Consulate. 

"Let  him  make  his  report,"  Duncan  said. 
"We  '11  just  step  into  this  next  room  and  listen." 

And  through  the  partly  open  door,  he  and  his 
wife  heard  Captain  Dettmar,  with  tears  in  his 
voice,  describe  the  loss  of  his  owners. 

"I  jibed  over  and  went  back  across  the  very 
spot,"  he  concluded.  "There  was  not  a  sign  of 
them.  I  called  and  called,  but  there  was  never 
an  answer.  I  tacked  back  and  forth  and  wore 
for  two  solid  hours,  then  hove  to  till  daybreak, 
and  cruised  back  and  forth  all  day,  two  men  at 
the  mastheads.  It  is  terrible.  I  am  heartbroken. 
Mr.  Duncan  was  a  splendid  man,  and  I  shall 
never  .  .  ." 

But  he  never  completed  the  sentence,  for  at 
that  moment  his  splendid  employer  strode  out 
upon  him,  leaving  Minnie  standing  in  the  door 
way.  Captain  Dettmar's  white  face  blanched 
even  whiter. 

"I  did  my  best  to  pick  you  up,  sir,"  he  began. 

Boyd  Duncan's  answer  was  couched  in  terms 
of  bunched  knuckles,  two  bunches  of  them,  that 
landed  right  and  left  on  Captain  Dettmar's  face. 

177 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

Captain  Dettmar  staggered  backward,  recovered, 
and  rushed  with  swinging  arms  at  his  employer, 
only  to  be  met  with  a  blow  squarely  between  the 
eyes.  This  time  the  Captain  went  down,  bearing 
the  typewriter  under  him  as  he  crashed  to  the 
floor. 

"This  is  not  permissible,"  Consul  Lingford 
spluttered.  "I  beg  of  you,  I  beg  of  you,  to  de 
sist." 

"I  '11  pay  the  damages  to  office  furniture,"  Dun 
can  answered,  and  at  the  same  time  landing  more 
bunched  knuckles  on  the  eyes  and  nose  of  Dett 
mar. 

Consul  Lingford  bobbed  around  in  the  turmoil 
like  a  wet  hen,  while  his  office  furniture  went  to 
ruin.  Once,  he  caught  Duncan  by  the  arm,  but 
was  flung  back,  gasping,  half-across  the  room. 
Another  time  he  appealed  to  Minnie. 

"Mrs.  Duncan,  won't  you,  please,  please,  re 
strain  your  husband*?" 

But  she,  white-faced  and  trembling,  resolutely 
shook  her  head  and  watched  the  fray  with  all  her 
eyes. 

"It  is  outrageous,"  Consul  Lingford  cried, 
dodging  the  hurtling  bodies  of  the  two  men.  "It 
is  an  affront  to  the  Government,  to  the  United 

178 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

States  Government.  Nor  will  it  be  overlooked,  I 
warn  you.  Oh,  do  pray  desist,  Mr.  Duncan. 
You  will  kill  the  man.  I  beg  of  you.  I  beg,  I 
beg  .  .  ." 

,     But  the  crash  of  a  tall  vase  filled  with  crimson 
hibiscus  blossoms  left  him  speechless. 

The  time  came  when  Captain  Dettmar  could 
no  longer  get  up.  He  got  as  far  as  hands  and 
knees,  struggled  vainly  to  rise  further,  then  col 
lapsed.  Duncan  stirred  the  groaning  wreck  with 
his  foot. 

"He's  all  right,"  he  announced.  "I've  only 
given  him  what  he  has  given  many  a  sailor  and 
worse." 

"Great  heavens,  sir!"  Consul  Lingford  ex 
ploded,  staring  horror-stricken  at  the  man  whom 
he  had  invited  to  lunch. 

Duncan  giggled  involuntarily,  then  controlled 
himself. 

"I  apologize,  Mr.  Lingford,  I  most  heartily 
apologize.  I  fear  I  was  slightly  carried  away  by 
my  feelings." 

Consul  Lingford  gulped  and  sawed  the  air 
speechlessly  with  his  arms. 

"Slightly,  sir?  Slightly?"  he  managed  to 
articulate. 

179 


BUNCHES  OF  KNUCKLES 

"Boyd,"  Minnie  called  softly  from  the  door 
way. 

He  turned  and  looked. 

"You  are  a  joy,"  she  said. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Lingford,  I  am  done  with 
him,"  Duncan  said.  "I  turn  over  what  is  left 
to  you  and  the  law." 

"That*?"  Consul  Lingford  queried,  in  accent  of 
horror. 

"That,"  Boyd  Duncan  replied,  looking  rue 
fully  at  his  battered  knuckles. 


180 


WAR 


WAR 

HE  was  a  young  man,  not  more  than  twenty- 
four  or  five,  and  he  might  have  sat  his  horse 
with  the  careless  grace  of  his  youth  had  he  not 
been  so  catlike  and  tense.  His  black  eyes  roved 
everywhere,  catching  the  movements  of  twigs 
and  branches  where  small  birds  hopped,  questing 
ever  onward  through  the  changing  vistas  of  trees 
and  brush,  and  returning  always  to  the  clumps 
of  undergrowth  on  either  side.  And  as  he 
watched,  so  did  he  listen,  though  he  rode  on  in 
silence,  save  for  the  boom  of  heavy  guns  from  far 
to  the  west.  This  had  been  sounding  monoto 
nously  in  his  ears  for  hours,  and  only  its  cessation 
would  have  aroused  his  notice.  For  he  had  busi 
ness  closer  to  hand.  Across  his  saddle-bow  was 
balanced  a  carbine. 

So  tensely  was  he  strung,  that  a  bunch  of  quail, 
exploding  into  flight  from  under  his  horse's  nose, 
startled  him  to  such  an  extent  that  automatically, 
instantly,  he  had  reined  in  and  fetched  the  carbine 
halfway  to  his  shoulder.  He  grinned  sheep- 

183 


WAR 

ishly,  recovered  himself,  and  rode  on.  So  tense 
was  he,  so  bent  upon  the  work  he  had  to  do,  that 
the  sweat  stung  his  eyes  unwiped,  and  unheeded 
rolled  down  his  nose  and  spattered  his  saddle 
pommel.  The  band  of  his  cavalryman's  hat 
was  fresh-stained  with  sweat.  The  roan  horse 
under  him  was  likewise  wet.  It  was  high  noon 
of  a  breathless  day  of  heat.  Even  the  birds  and 
squirrels  did  not  dare  the  sun,  but  sheltered  in 
shady  hiding  places  among  the  trees. 

Man  and  horse  were  littered  with  leaves  and 
dusted  with  yellow  pollen,  for  the  open  was  ven 
tured  no  more  than  was  compulsory.  They  kept 
to  the  brush  and  trees,  and  invariably  the  man 
halted  and  peered  out  before  crossing  a  dry  glade 
or  naked  stretch  of  upland  pasturage.  He 
worked  always  to  the  north,  though  his  way  was 
devious,  and  it  was  from  the  north  that  he 
seemed  most  to  apprehend  that  for  which  he  was 
looking.  He  was  no  coward,  but  his  courage 
was  only  that  of  the  average  civilized  man,  and 
he  was  looking  to  live,  not  die. 

Up  a  small  hillside  he  followed  a  cowpath 
through  such  dense  scrub  that  he  was  forced  to 
dismount  and  lead  his  horse.  But  when  the  path 
swung  around  to  the  west,  he  abandoned  it  and 

184 


WAR 

headed  to  the  north  again  along  the  oak-covered 
top  of  the  ridge. 

The  ridge  ended  in  a  steep  descent — so  steep 
that  he  zigzagged  back  and  forth  across  the  face 
of  the  slope,  sliding  and  stumbling  among  the 
dead  leaves  and  matted  vines  and  keeping  a 
watchful  eye  on  the  horse  above  that  threatened 
to  fall  down  upon  him.  The  sweat  ran  from 
him,  and  the  pollen-dust,  settling  pungently  in 
mouth  and  nostrils,  increased  his  thirst.  Try  as 
he  would,  nevertheless  the  descent  was  noisy,  and 
frequently  he  stopped,  panting  in  the  dry  heat 
and  listening  for  any  warning  from  beneath. 

At  the  bottom  he  came  out  on  a  flat,  so  densely 
forested  that  he  could  not  make  out  its  extent. 
Here  the  character  of  the  woods  changed,  and  he 
was  able  to  remount.  Instead  of  the  twisted  hill 
side  oaks,  tall  straight  trees,  big-trunked  and  pros 
perous,  rose  from  the  damp  fat  soil.  Only  here 
and  there  were  thickets,  easily  avoided,  while  he 
encountered  winding,  park-like  glades  where  the 
cattle  had  pastured  in  the  days  before  war  had 
run  them  off. 

His  progress  was  more  rapid  now,  as  he  came 
down  into  the  valley,  and  at  the  end  of  half  an 
hour  he  halted  at  an  ancient  rail  fence  on  the 

185 


WAR 

edge  of  a  clearing.  He  did  not  like  the  openness 
of  it,  yet  his  path  lay  across  to  the  fringe  of  trees 
that  marked  the  banks  of  the  stream.  It  was  a 
mere  quarter  of  a  mile  across  that  open,  but  the 
thought  of  venturing  out  in  it  was  repugnant. 
A  rifle,  a  score  of  them,  a  thousand,  might  lurk 
in  that  fringe  by  the  stream. 

Twice  he  essayed  to  start,  and  twice  he  paused. 
He  was  appalled  by  his  own  loneliness.  The 
pulse  of  war  that  beat  from  the  West  suggested 
the  companionship  of  battling  thousands;  here 
was  naught  but  silence,  and  himself,  and  possible 
death-dealing  bullets  from  a  myriad  ambushes. 
And  yet  his  task  was  to  find  what  he  feared  to 
find.  He  must  go  on,  and  on,  till  somewhere, 
some  time,  he  encountered  another  man,  or  other 
men,  from  the  other  side,  scouting,  as  he  was 
scouting,  to  make  report,  as  he  must  make  report, 
of  having  come  in  touch. 

Changing  his  mind,  he  skirted  inside  the  woods 
for  a  distance,  and  again  peeped  forth.  This 
time,  in  the  middle  of  the  clearing,  he  saw  a 
small  farmhouse.  There  were  no  signs  of  life. 
No  smoke  curled  from  the  chimney,  not  a  barn 
yard  fowl  clucked  and  strutted.  The  kitchen  door 
stood  open,  and  he  gazed  so  long  and  hard  into 

186 


WAR 

the  black  aperture  that  it  seemed  almost  that  a 
farmer's  wife  must  emerge  at  any  moment. 

He  licked  the  pollen  and  dust  from  his  dry 
lips,  stiffened  himself,  mind  and  body,  and  rode 
out  into  the  blazing  sunshine.  Nothing  stirred. 
He  went  on  past  the  house,  and  approached  the 
wall  of  trees  and  bushes  by  the  river's  bank. 
One  thought  persisted  maddeningly.  It  was  of 
the  crash  into  his  body  of  a  high-velocity  bullet. 
It  made  him  feel  very  fragile  and  defenseless, 
and  he  crouched  lower  in  the  saddle. 

Tethering  his  horse  in  the  edge  of  the  wood, 
he  continued  a  hundred  yards  on  foot  till  he  came 
to  the  stream.  Twenty  feet  wide  it  was,  without 
perceptible  current,  cool  and  inviting,  and  he  was 
very  thirsty.  But  he  waited  inside  his  screen  of 
leafage,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  screen  on  the  op 
posite  side.  To  make  the  wait  endurable,  he  sat 
down,  his  carbine  resting  on  his  knees.  The 
minutes  passed,  and  slowly  his  tenseness  relaxed. 
At  last  he  decided  there  was  no  danger;  but  just 
as  he  prepared  to  part  the  bushes  and  bend  down 
to  the  water,  a  movement  among  the  opposite 
bushes  caught  his  eye. 

It  might  be  a  bird.  But  he  waited.  Again 
there  was  an  agitation  of  the  bushes,  and  then, 

187 


WAR 

so  suddenly  that  it  almost  startled  a  cry  from 
him,  the  bushes  parted  and  a  face  peered  out.  It 
was  a  face  covered  with  several  weeks'  growth 
of  ginger-colored  beard.  The  eyes  were  blue  and 
wide  apart,  with  laughter-wrinkles  in  the  corners 
that  showed  despite  the  tired  and  anxious  expres 
sion  of  the  whole  face. 

All  this  he  could  see  with  microscopic  clearness, 
for  the  distance  was  no  more  than  twenty  feet. 
And  all  this  he  saw  in  such  brief  time,  that  he 
saw  it  as  he  lifted  his  carbine  to  his  shoulder. 
He  glanced  along  the  sights,  and  knew  that  he 
was  gazing  upon  a  man  who  was  as  good  as  dead. 
It  was  impossible  to  miss  at  such  point  blank 
range. 

But  he  did  not  shoot.  Slowly  he  lowered  the 
carbine  and  watched.  A  hand,  clutching  a 
water-bottle,  became  visible  and  the  ginger  beard 
bent  downward  to  fill  the  bottle.  He  could  hear 
the  gurgle  of  the  water.  Then  arm  and  bottle 
and  ginger  beard  disappeared  behind  the  closing 
bushes.  A  long  time  he  waited,  when,  with  thirst 
unslaked,  he  crept  back  to  his  horse,  rode  slowly 
across  the  sun-washed  clearing,  and  passed  into 
the  shelter  of  the  woods  beyond. 


188 


WAR 

II 

Another  day,  hot  and  breathless.  A  deserted 
farmhouse,  large,  with  many  outbuildings  and 
an  orchard,  standing  in  a  clearing.  From  the 
woods,  on  a  roan  horse,  carbine  across  pommel, 
rode  the  young  man  with  the  quick  black  eyes. 
He  breathed  with  relief  as  he  gained  the  house. 
That  a  fight  had  taken  place  here  earlier  in  the 
season  was  evident.  Clips  and  empty  cartridges, 
tarnished  with  verdigris,  lay  on  the  ground, 
which,  while  wet,  had  been  torn  up  by  the  hoofs 
of  horses.  Hard  by  the  kitchen  garden  were 
graves,  tagged  and  numbered.  From  the  oak 
tree  by  the  kitchen  door,  in  tattered,  weather- 
beaten  garments,  hung  the  bodies  of  two  men. 
The  faces,  shriveled  and  defaced,  bore  no  like 
ness  to  the  faces  of  men.  The  roan  horse  snorted 
beneath  them,  and  the  rider  caressed  and  soothed 
it  and  tied  it  farther  away. 

Entering  the  house,  he  found  the  interior  a 
wreck.  He  trod  on  empty  cartridges  as  he 
walked  from  room  to  room  to  reconnoiter  from 
the  windows.  Men  had  camped  and  slept  every 
where,  and  on  the  floor  of  one  room  he  came  upon 

189 


WAR 

stains  unmistakable  where  the  wounded  had  been 
laid  down. 

Again  outside,  he  led  the  horse  around  behind 
the  barn  and  invaded  the  orchard.  A  dozen  trees 
were  burdened  with  ripe  apples.  He  filled 
his  pockets,  eating  while  he  picked.  Then  a 
thought  came  to  him,  and  he  glanced  at  the  sun, 
calculating  the  time  of  his  return  to  camp. 
He  pulled  off  his  shirt,  tying  the  sleeves  and 
making  a  bag.  This  he  proceeded  to  fill  with 
apples. 

As  he  was  about  to  mount  his  horse,  the  animal 
suddenly  pricked  up  its  ears.  The  man,  too, 
listened,  and  heard,  faintly,  the  thud  of  hoofs 
on  soft  earth.  He  crept  to  the  corner  of  the 
barn  and  peered  out.  A  dozen  mounted  men, 
strung  out  loosely,  approaching  from  the  opposite 
side  of  the  clearing,  were  only  a  matter  of  a  hun 
dred  yards  or  so  away.  They  rode  on  to  the 
house.  Some  dismounted,  while  others  remained 
in  the  saddle  as  an  earnest  that  their  stay  would 
be  short.  They  seemed  to  be  holding  a  council, 
for  he  could  hear  them  talking  excitedly  in  the 
detested  tongue  of  the  alien  invader.  The  time 
passed,  but  they  seemed  unable  to  reach  a  de 
cision.  He  put  the  carbine  away  in  its  boot, 

190 


WAR 

mounted,  and  waited  impatiently,  balancing  the 
shirt  of  apples  on  the  pommel. 
'  He  heard  footsteps  approaching,  and  drove  his 
spurs  so  fiercely  into  the  roan  as  to  force  a  sur 
prised  groan  from  the  animal  as  it  leaped  for 
ward.  At  the  corner  of  the  barn  he  saw  the  in 
truder,  a  mere  boy  of  nineteen  or  twenty  for  all 
of  his  uniform,  jump  back  to  escape  being  run 
down.  At  the  same  moment  the  roan  swerved, 
and  its  rider  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  aroused  men 
by  the  house.  Some  were  springing  from  their 
horses,  and  he  could  see  the  rifles  going  to  their 
shoulders.  He  passed  the  kitchen  door  and  the 
dried  corpses  swinging  in  the  shade,  compelling 
his  foes  to  run  around  the  front  of  the  house. 
A  rifle  cracked,  and  a  second,  but  he  was  going 
fast,  leaning  forward,  low  in  the  saddle,  one  hand 
clutching  the  shirt  of  apples,  the  other  guiding 
the  horse. 

The  top  bar  of  the  fence  was  four  feet  high, 
but  he  knew  his  roan  and  leaped  it  at  full  career 
to  the  accompaniment  of  several  scattered  shots. 
Eight  hundred  yards  straight  away  were  the 
woods,  and  the  roan  was  covering  the  distance 
with  mighty  strides.  Every  man  was  now  firing. 
They  were  pumping  their  guns  so  rapidly  that  he 

191 


WAR 

no  longer  heard  individual  shots.  A  bullet  went 
through  his  hat,  but  he  was  unaware,  though  he 
did  know  when  another  tore  through  the  apples 
on  the  pommel.  And  he  winced  and  ducked  even 
lower  when  a  third  bullet,  fired  low,  struck  a 
stone  between  his  horse's  legs  and  ricochetted  off 
through  the  air,  buzzing  and  humming  like  some 
incredible  insect. 

The  shots  died  down  as  the  magazines  were 
emptied,  until,  quickly,  there  was  no  more  shoot 
ing.  The  young  man  was  elated.  Through  that 
astonishing  fusillade  he  had  come  unscathed. 
He  glanced  back.  Yes,  they  had  emptied  their 
magazines.  He  could  see  several  reloading. 
Others  were  running  back  behind  the  house  for 
their  horses.  As  he  looked,  two  already  mounted, 
came  back  into  view  around  the  corner,  riding 
hard.  And  at  the  same  moment,  he  saw  the  man 
with  the  unmistakable  ginger  beard  kneel  down 
on  the  ground,  level  his  gun,  and  coolly  take  his 
time  for  the  long  shot. 

The  young  man  threw  his  spurs  into  the  horse, 
crouched  very  low,  and  swerved  in  his  flight  in 
order  to  distract  the  other's  aim.  And  still  the 
shot  did  not  come.  With  each  jump  of  the  horse, 
the  woods  sprang  nearer.  They  were  only  two 

192 


WAR 

hundred  yards  away,  and  still  the  shot  was  de 
layed. 

And  then  he  heard  it,  the  last  thing  he  was 
to  hear,  for  he  was  dead  ere  he  hit  the  ground 
in  the  long  crashing  fall  from  the  saddle.  And 
they,  watching  at  the  house,  saw  him  fall,  saw 
his  body  bounce  when  it  struck  the  earth,  and 
saw  the  burst  of  red-cheeked  apples  that  rolled 
about  him.  They  laughed  at  the  unexpected 
eruption  of  apples,  and  clapped  their  hands  in 
applause  of  the  long  shot  by  the  man  with  the 
ginger  beard. 


193 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 


any  man  —  a  gentleman,  I  mean  —  call 
a  woman  a  pig*?" 

The  little  man  flung  this  challenge  forth  to  the 
whole  group,  then  leaned  back  in  his  deck  chair, 
sipping  lemonade  with  an  air  commingled  of 
certitude  and  watchful  belligerence.  Nobody 
made  answer.  They  were  used  to  the  little 
man  and  his  sudden  passions  and  high  eleva 
tions. 

"I  repeat,  it  was  in  my  presence  that  he  said 
a  certain  lady,  whom  none  of  you  knows,  was  a 
pig.  He  did  not  say  swine.  He  grossly  said 
that  she  was  a  pig.  And  I  hold  that  no  man  who 
is  a  man  could  possibly  make  such  a  remark  about 
any  woman." 

Dr.  Dawson  puffed  stolidly  at  his  black  pipe. 
Matthews,  with  knees  hunched  up  and  clasped 
by  his  arms,  was  absorbed  in  the  flight  of  a 
gunie.  Sweet,  finishing  his  Scotch  and  soda,  was 
questing  about  with  his  eyes  for  a  deck  steward. 

"I  ask  you,  Mr.  Treloar,  can  any  man  call  any 
woman  a  pig?" 

197 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

Treloar,  who  happened  to  be  sitting  next  to  him, 
was  startled  by  the  abruptness  of  the  attack,  and 
wondered  what  grounds  he  had  ever  given  the 
little  man  to  believe  that  he  could  call  a  woman 
a  pig. 

"I  should  say,"  he  began  his  hesitant  answer, 
"that  it — er — depends  on  the — er — the  lady." 

The  little  man  was  aghast. 

"You  mean     .     .     .*?"  he  quavered. 

"That  I  have  seen  female  humans  who  were  as 
bad  as  pigs — and  worse." 

There  was  a  long  pained  silence.  The  little 
man  seemed  withered  by  the  coarse  brutality  of 
the  reply.  In  his  face  was  unutterable  hurt  and 
woe. 

"You  have  told  of  a  man  who  made  a  not  nice 
remark  and  you  have  classified  him,"  Treloar  said 
in  cold,  even  tones.  "I  shall  now  tell  you  about 
a  woman — I  beg  your  pardon — a  lady,  and  when 
I  have  finished  I  shall  ask  you  to  classify  her. 
Miss  Caruthers  I  shall  call  her,  principally  for 
the  reason  that  it  is  not  her  name.  It  was  on  a 
P.  &  O.  boat,  and  it  occurred  neither  more  nor 
less  than  several  years  ago. 

"Miss  Caruthers  was  charming.  No;  that  is 
not  the  word.  She  was  amazing.  She  was  a 

198 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

young  woman,  and  a  lady.  Her  father  was  a 
certain  high  official  whose  name,  if  I  mentioned 
it,  would  be  immediately  recognized  by  all  of 
you.  She  was  with  her  mother  and  two  maids 
at  the  time,  going  out  to  join  the  old  gentleman 
wherever  you  like  to  wish  in  the  East. 

"She,  and  pardon  me  for  repeating,  was  amaz 
ing.  It  is  the  one  adequate  word.  Even  the 
most  minor  adjectives  applicable  to  her  are  bound 
to  be  sheer  superlatives.  There  was  nothing  she 
could  not  do  better  than  any  woman  and  than 
most  men.  Sing,  play — bah! — as  some  rhetori 
cian  once  said  of  old  Nap,  competition  fled  from 
her.  Swim!  She  could  have  made  a  fortune 
and  a  name  as  a  public  performer.  She  was  one 
of  those  rare  women  who  can  strip  off  all  the  frills 
of  dress,  and  in  simple  swimming  suit  be  more 
satisfying  beautiful.  Dress!  She  was  an  ar 
tist. 

"But  her  swimming.  Physically,  she  was  the 
perfect  woman — you  know  what  I  mean;  not  in 
the  gross,  muscular  way  of  acrobats,  but  in  all 
the  delicacy  of  line  and  fragility  of  frame  and 
texture.  And  combined  with  this,  strength.  How 
she  could  do  it  was  the  marvel.  You  know  the 
wonder  of  a  woman's  arm — the  fore  arm,  I  mean; 

199 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

the  sweet  fading  away  from  rounded  biceps  and 
hint  of  muscle,  down  through  small  elbow  and 
firm  soft  swell  to  the  wrist,  small,  unthinkably 
small  and  round  and  strong*?  This  was  hers. 
And  yet,  to  see  her  swimming  the  sharp  quick 
English  overhand  stroke,  and  getting  somewhere 
with  it,  too,  was — well,  I  understand  anatomy 
and  athletics  and  such  things,  and  yet  it  was  a 
mystery  to  me  how  she  could  do  it. 

"She  could  stay  under  water  for  two  minutes. 
I  have  timed  her.  No  man  on  board,  except 
Dennitson,  could  capture  as  many  coins  as  she 
with  a  single  dive.  On  the  forward  main-deck 
was  a  big  canvas  tank  with  six  feet  of  sea-water. 
We  used  to  toss  small  coins  into  it.  I  have  seen 
her  dive  from  the  bridge  deck — no  mean  feat  in 
itself — into  that  six-feet  of  water,  and  fetch  up 
no  less  than  forty-seven  coins,  scattered  willy- 
nilly  over  the  whole  bottom  of  the  tank.  Den 
nitson,  a  quiet  young  Englishman,  never  exceeded 
her  in  this,  though  he  made  it  a  point  always  to 
tie  her  score. 

"She  was  a  sea- woman,  true.  But  she  was  a 
land-woman,  a  horsewoman — a — she  was  the 
universal  woman.  To  see  her,  all  softness  of 
soft  dress,  surrounded  by  half  a  dozen  eager 

200 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

men,  languidly  careless  of  them  all  or  flashing 
brightness  and  wit  on  them  and  at  them  and 
through  them,  one  would  fancy  she  was  good  for 
nothing  else  in  the  world.  At  such  moments  I 
have  compelled  myself  to  remember  her  score  of 
forty-seven  coins  from  the  bottom  of  the  swimming 
tank.  But  that  was  she,  the  everlasting  wonder 
of  a  woman  who  did  all  things  well. 

"She  fascinated  every  betrousered  human 
around  her.  She  had  me — and  I  don't  mind  con 
fessing  it — she  had  me  to  heel  along  with  the 
rest.  Young  puppies  and  old  gray  dogs  who 
ought  to  have  known  better — oh,  they  all  came 
up  and  crawled  around  her  skirts  and  whined 
and  fawned  when  she  whistled.  They  were  all 
guilty,  from  young  Ardmore,  a  pink  cherub  of 
nineteen  outward  bound  for  some  clerkship  in  the 
Consular  Service,  to  old  Captain  Bentley,  grizzled 
and  sea-worn,  and  as  emotional,  to  look  at,  as  a 
Chinese  joss.  There  was  a  nice  middle-aged 
chap,  Perkins,  I  believe,  who  forgot  his  wife  was 
on  board  until  Miss  Caruthers  sent  him  to  the 
right  about  and  back  where  he  belonged. 

"Men  were  wax  in  her  hands.  She  melted 
them,  or  softly  molded  them,  or  incinerated 
them,  as  she  pleased.  There  was  n't  a  steward, 

201 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

even,  grand  and  remote  as  she  was,  who,  at  her 
bidding,  would  have  hesitated  to  souse  the  Old 
Man  himself  with  a  plate  of  soup.  You  have 
all  seen  such  women — a  sort  of  world's  desire  to 
all  men.  As  a  man-conqueror  she  was  supreme. 
She  was  a  whip-lash,  a  sting  and  a  flame,  an  elec 
tric  spark.  Oh,  believe  me,  at  times  there  were 
flashes  of  will  that  scorched  through  her  beauty 
and  seduction  and  smote  a  victim  into  blank  and 
shivering  idiocy  and  fear. 

"And  don't  fail  to  mark,  in  the  light  of  what 
is  to  come,  that  she  was  a  prideful  woman.  Pride 
of  race,  pride  of  caste,  pride  of  sex,  pride  of 
power— she  had  it  all,  a  pride  strange  and  wilful 
and  terrible. 

"She  ran  the  ship,  she  ran  the  voyage,  she  ran 
everything,  and  she  ran  Dennitson.  That  he 
had  outdistanced  the  pack  even  the  least  wise 
of  us  admitted.  That  she  liked  him,  and  that 
this  feeling  was  growing,  there  was  not  a  doubt. 
I  am  certain  that  she  looked  on  him  with  kinder 
eyes  than  she  had  ever  looked  with  on  man  be 
fore.  We  still  worshiped,  and  were  always 
hanging  about  waiting  to  be  whistled  up,  though 
we  knew  that  Dennitson  was  laps  and  laps  ahead 
of  us.  What  might  have  happened  we  shall 

202 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

never  know,  for  we  came  to  Colombo  and  some 
thing  else  happened. 

"You  know  Colombo,  and  how  the  native  boys 
dive*  for  coins  in  the  shark-infested  bay.  Of 
course,  it  is  only  among  the  ground  sharks  and 
fish  sharks  that  they  venture.  It  is  almost  un 
canny  the  way  they  know  sharks  and  can  sense 
the  presence  of  a  real  killer — a  tiger  shark,  for 
instance,  or  a  gray  nurse  strayed  up  from  Aus 
tralian  waters.  Let  such  a  shark  appear,  and, 
long  before  the  passengers  can  guess,  every 
mother's  son  of  them  is  out  of  the  water  in  a 
wild  scramble  for  safety. 

"It  was  after  tiffin,  and  Miss  Caruthers 
was  holding  her  usual  court  under  the  deck-awn 
ings.  Old  Captain  Bentley  had  just  been 
whistled  up,  and  had  granted  her  what  he  never 
granted  before  .  .  .  nor  since — permission 
for  the  boys  to  come  up  on  the  promenade  deck. 
You  see,  Miss  Caruthers  was  a  swimmer,  and  she 
was  interested.  She  took  up  a  collection  of  all 
our  small  change,  and  herself  tossed  it  overside, 
singly  and  in  handfuls,  arranging  the  terms  of 
the  contests,  chiding  a  miss,  giving  extra  rewards 
to  clever  wins,  in  short,  managing  the  whole  ex 
hibition. 

203 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

"She  was  especially  keen  on  their  jumping. 
You  know,  jumping  feet-first  from  a  height,  it 
is  very  difficult  to  hold  the  body  perpendicularly 
while  in  the  air.  The  center  of  gravity  of  the 
male  body  is  high,  and  the  tendency  is  to  over- 
topple.  But  the  little  beggars  employed  a 
method  which  she  declared  was  new  to  her  and 
which  she  desired  to  learn.  Leaping  from  the 
davits  of  the  boat-deck  above,  they  plunged  down 
ward,  their  faces  and  shoulders  bowed  forward, 
looking  at  the  water.  And  only  at  the  last  mo 
ment  did  they  abruptly  straighten  up  and  enter 
the  water  erect  and  true. 

"It  was  a  pretty  sight.  Their  diving  was  not 
so  good,  though  there  was  one  of  them  who  was 
excellent  at  it,  as  he  was  in  all  the  other  stunts. 
Some  white  man  must  have  taught  him,  for  he 
made  the  proper  swan  dive  and  did  it  as  beauti 
fully  as  I  have  ever  seen  it.  You  know,  head 
first  into  the  water,  from  a  great  height,  the 
problem  is  to  enter  the  water  at  the  perfect  angle. 
Miss  the  angle  and  it  means  at  the  least  a  twisted 
back  and  injury  for  life.  Also,  it  has  meant 
death  for  many  a  bungler.  But  this  boy  could 
do  it — seventy  feet  I  know  he  cleared  in  one  dive 
from  the  rigging — clenched  hands  on  chest,  head 

204 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

thrown  back,  sailing  more  like  a  bird,  upward 
and  out,  and  out  and  down,  body  flat  on  the  air 
so  that  if  it  struck  the  surface  in  that  position 
it  would  be  split  in  half  like  a  herring.  But  the 
moment  before  the  water  is  reached,  the  head 
drops  forward,  the  hands  go  out  and  lock  the 
arms  in  an  arch  in  advance  of  the  head,  and  the 
body  curves  gracefully  downward  and  enters  the 
water  just  right. 

"This  the  boy  did,  again  and  again,  to  the  de 
light  of  all  of  us,  but  particularly  of  Miss 
Caruthers.  He  could  not  have  been  a  moment 
over  twelve  or  thirteen,  yet  he  was  by  far  the 
cleverest  of  the  gang.  He  was  the  favorite  of 
his  crowd,  and  its  leader.  Though  there  were  a 
number  older  than  he,  they  acknowledged  his 
chieftaincy.  He  was  a  beautiful  boy,  a  lithe 
young  god  in  breathing  bronze,  eyes  wide  apart, 
intelligent  and  daring — a  bubble,  a  mote,  a  beau 
tiful  flash  and  sparkle  of  life.  You  have  seen 
wonderful  glorious  creatures — animals,  anything, 
a  leopard,  a  horse — restless,  eager,  too  much  alive 
ever  to  be  still,  silken  of  muscle,  each  slightest 
movement  a  benediction  of  grace,  every  action 
wild,  untrammeled,  and  over  all  spilling  out  that 
intense  vitality,  that  sheen  and  luster  of  living 

205 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

light.  The  boy  had  it.  Life  poured  out  of  him 
almost  in  an  effulgence.  His  skin  glowed  with 
it.  It  burned  in  his  eyes.  I  swear  I  could  al 
most  hear  it  crackle  from  him.  Looking  at  him, 
it  was  as  if  a  whiff  of  ozone  came  to  one's  nostrils 
— so  fresh  and  young  was  he,  so  resplendent  with 
health,  so  wildly  wild. 

"This  was  the  boy.  And  it  was  he  who  gave 
the  alarm  in  the  midst  of  the  sport.  The  boys 
made  a  dash  of  it  for  the  gangway  platform, 
swimming  the  fastest  strokes  they  knew,  pell- 
mell,  floundering  and  splashing,  fright  in  their 
faces,  clambering  out  with  jumps  and  surges,  any 
way  to  get  out,  lending  one  another  a  hand  to 
safety,  till  all  were  strung  along  the  gangway  and 
peering  down  into  the  water. 

"  'What  is  the  matter?  asked  Miss  Caru- 
thers. 

"  'A  shark,  I  fancy,'  Captain  Bentley  answered. 
'Lucky  little  beggars  that  he  did  n't  get  one  of 
them/ 

"  'Are  they  afraid  of  sharks'?'  she  asked. 

"  'Are  n't  you4?'  he  asked  back. 

She  shuddered,  looked  overside  at  the  water, 
and  made  a  moue. 

"  'Not  for  the  world  would  I  venture  where  a 
206 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

shark  might  be,'  she  said,  and  shuddered  again. 
They  are  horrible !  Horrible !' 

"The  boys  came  up  on  the  promenade  deck, 
clustering  close  to  the  rail  and  worshiping  Miss 
Caruthers  who  had  flung  them  such  a  wealth  of 
backsheesh.  The  performance  being  over,  Cap 
tain  Bentley  motioned  to  them  to  clear  out.  But 
she  stopped  him. 

"  'One  moment,  please,  Captain.  I  have  al 
ways  understood  that  the  natives  are  not  afraid 
of  sharks.' 

"She  beckoned  the  boy  of  the  swan  dive  nearer 
to  her,  and  signed  to  him  to  dive  over  again. 
He  shook  his  head,  and  along  with  all  his  crew 
behind  him  laughed  as  if  it  were  a  good  joke. 

"  'Shark,'  he  volunteered,  pointing  to  the 
water. 

"  'No,'  she  said.     'There  is  no  shark.' 

"But  he  nodded  his  head  positively,  and  the 
boys  behind  him  nodded  with  equal  positiveness. 

"  'No,  no,  no,'  she  cried.  And  then  to  us, 
'Who  '11  lend  me  a  half-crown  and  a  sovereign*?' 

"Immediately  the  half  dozen  of  us  were  pre 
senting  her  with  crowns  and  sovereigns,  and  she 
accepted  the  two  coins  from  young  Ardmore. 

"She  held  up  the  half-crown  for  the  boys  to 
207 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

see.  But  there  was  no  eager  rush  to  the  rail 
preparatory  to  leaping.  They  stood  there  grin 
ning  sheepishly.  She  offered  the  coin  to  each  one 
individually,  and  each,  as  his  turn  came,  rubbed 
his  foot  against  his  calf,  shook  his  head,  and 
grinned.  Then  she  tossed  the  half-crown  over 
board.  With  wistful,  regretful  faces  they 
watched  its  silver  flight  through  the  air,  but  not 
one  moved  to  follow  it. 

"  'Don't  do  it  with  the  sovereign,'  Dennitson 
said  to  her  in  a  low  voice. 

"She  took  no  notice,  but  held  up  the  gold  coin 
before  the  eyes  of  the  boy  of  the  swan  dive. 

"  'Don't,'  said  Captain  Bentley.     'I  would  n't 
throw  a  sick  cat  overside  with  a  shark  around.' 

"But  she  laughed,  bent  on  her  purpose,  and 
continued  to  dazzle  the  boy. 

"  'Don't  tempt  him,'  Dennitson  urged.     Tt  is 
a  fortune  to  him,  and  he  might  go  over  after  it.' 

"'Wouldn't  you?  she  flared  at  him.     'If  I 
threw  it?'     This  last  more  softly. 

"Dennitson  shook  his  head. 

"  fYour  price  is  high,'  she  said.     'For  how 
many  sovereigns  would  you  go?' 

"  'There  are  not  enough  coined  to  get  me  over 
side,'  was  his  answer. 

208 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

"She  debated  a  moment,  the  boy  forgotten  in 
her  tilt  with  Dennitson. 

"  Tor  me*?'  she  said  very  softly. 

"  'To  save  your  life — yes.     But  not  otherwise.' 

"She  turned  back  to  the  boy.  Again  she  held 
the  coin  before  his  eyes,  dazzling  him  with 
the  vastness  of  its  value.  Then  she  made  as 
to  toss  it  out,  and,  involuntarily,  he  made  a 
half-movement  toward  the  rail,  but  was 
checked  by  sharp  cries  of  reproof  from  his 
companions.  There  was  anger  in  their  voices  as 
well. 

"  T  know  it  is  only  fooling,'  Dennitson  said. 
'Carry  it  as  far  as  you  like,  but  for  heaven's  sake 
don't  throw  it.' 

"Whether  it  was  that  strange  wilfulness  of 
hers,  or  whether  she  doubted  the  boy  could  be 
persuaded,  there  is  no  telling.  It  was  unexpected 
to  all  of  us.  Out  from  the  shade  of  the  awning 
the  coin  flashed  golden  in  the  blaze  of  sunshine 
and  fell  toward  the  sea  in  a  glittering  arch.  Be 
fore  a  hand  could  stay  him,  the  boy  was  over  the 
rail  and  curving  beautifully  downward  after  the 
coin.  Both  were  in  the  air  at  the  same  time. 
It  was  a  pretty  sight.  The  sovereign  cut  the 
water  sharply,  and  at  the  very  spot,  almost  at 

209 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

the  same  instant,  with  scarcely  a  splash,  the  boy 
entered. 

"From  the  quicker-eyed  black  boys  watching, 
came  an  exclamation.  We  were  all  at  the  rail. 
Don't  tell  me  it  is  necessary  for  a  shark  to  turn 
on  its  back.  That  one  didn't.  In  the  clear 
water,  from  the  height  we  were  above  it,  we  saw 
everything.  The  shark  was  a  big  brute,  and  with 
one  drive  he  cut  the  boy  squarely  in  half. 

"There  was  a  murmur  or  something  from 
among  us — who  made  it  I  did  not  know ;  it  might 
have  been  I.  And  then  there  was  silence.  Miss 
Caruthers  was  the  first  to  speak.  Her  face  was 
deathly  white. 

"  £I  .  .  .  I  never  dreamed,'  she  said,  and 
laughed  a  short,  hysterical  laugh. 

"All  her  pride  was  at  work  to  give  her  control. 
She  turned  weakly  toward  Dennitson,  and  then 
on  from  one  to  another  of  us.  In  her  eyes  was 
a  terrible  sickness,  and  her  lips  were  trembling. 
We  were  brutes — oh,  I  know  it,  now  that  I  look 
back  upon  it.  But  we  did  nothing. 

"  'Mr.  Dennitson,'  she  said,  Tom,  won't  you 
take  me  below?' 

"He  never  changed  the  direction  of  his  gaze, 
which  was  the  bleakest  I  have  ever  seen  in  a  man's 

210 


UNDER  THE  DECK  AWNINGS 

face,  nor  did  he  move  an  eyelid.  He  took  a 
cigarette  from  his  case  and  lighted  it.  Captain 
Bentley  made  a  nasty  sound  in  his  throat  and 
spat  overboard.  That  was  all;  that  and  the 
silence. 

"She  turned  away  and  started  to  walk  firmly 
down  the  deck.  Twenty  feet  away,  she  swayed 
and  thrust  a  hand  against  the  wall  to  save  her 
self.  And  so  she  went  on,  supporting  herself 
against  the  cabins  and  walking  very  slowly." 

Treloar  ceased.  He  turned  his  head  and 
favored  the  little  man  with  a  look  of  cold  in 
quiry. 

"Well,"  he  said  finally.     "Classify  her." 

The  little  man  gulped  and  swallowed. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,"  he  said.  "I  have 
nothing  whatever  to  say." 


211 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

THOUGH  dim  night-lights  burned,  she 
moved  familiarly  through  the  big  rooms 
and  wide  halls,  seeking  vainly  the  half-finished 
book  of  verse  she  had  mislaid  and  only  now  re 
membered.  When  she  turned  on  the  lights  in 
the  drawing-room,  she  disclosed  herself  clad  in 
a  sweeping  negligee  gown  of  soft  rose-colored 
stuff,  throat  and  shoulders  smothered  in  lace. 
Her  rings  were  still  on  her  fingers,  her  massed 
yellow  hair  had  not  yet  been  taken  down.  She 
was  delicately,  gracefully  beautiful,  with  slender, 
oval  face,  red  lips,  a  faint  color  in  the  cheeks, 
and  blue  eyes  of  the  chameleon  sort  that  at  will 
stare  wide  with  the  innocence  of  girlhood,  go 
hard  and  gray  and  brilliantly  cold,  or  flame  up 
in  hot  wilfulness  and  mastery. 

She  turned  the  lights  off  and  passed  out  and 
down  the  hall  toward  the  morning  room.  At  the 
entrance  she  paused  and  listened.  From  farther 
on  had  come,  not  a  noise,  but  an  impression  of 
movement.  She  could  have  sworn  she  had  not 
heard  anything,  yet  something  had  been  different. 
The  atmosphere  of  night  quietude  had  been  dis- 

215 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

turbed.  She  wondered  what  servant  could  be 
prowling  about.  Not  the  butler,  who  was  no 
torious  for  retiring  early  save  on  special  occasion. 
Nor  could  it  be  her  maid,  whom  she  had  per 
mitted  to  go  that  evening. 

Passing  on  to  the  dining-room,  she  found  the 
door  closed.  Why  she  opened  it  and  went  in, 
she  did  not  know,  except  for  the  feeling  that  the 
disturbing  factor,  whatever  it  might  be,  was 
there.  The  room  was  in  darkness,  and  she  felt 
her  way  to  the  button  and  pressed.  As  the  blaze 
of  light  flashed  on,  she  stepped  back  and  cried 
out.  It  was  a  mere  "Oh !"  and  it  was  not  loud. 

Facing  her,  alongside  the  button,  flat  against 
the  wall,  was  a  man.  In  his  hand,  pointed  to 
ward  her,  was  a  revolver.  She  noticed,  even  in 
the  shock  of  seeing  him,  that  the  weapon  was 
black  and  exceedingly  long-barreled.  She  knew 
it  for  what  it  was,  a  Colt's.  He  was  a  medium- 
sized  man,  roughly  clad,  brown-eyed,  and  swarthy 
with  sunburn.  He  seemed  very  cool.  There 
was  no  wabble  to  the  revolver,  and  it  was  directed 
toward  her  stomach,  not  from  an  outstretched 
arm,  but  from  the  hip,  against  which  the  forearm 
rested. 

216 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

"Oh,"  she  said.  "I  beg  your  pardon.  You 
startled  me.  What  do  you  want1?" 

"I  reckon  I  want  to  get  out,"  he  answered,  with 
a  humorous  twitch  to  the  lips.  "I  've  kind  of 
lost  my  way  in  this  here  shebang,  and  if  you  '11 
kindly  show  me  the  door  I  '11  cause  no  trouble 
and  sure  vamoose." 

"But  what  are  you  doing  here*?"  she  demanded, 
her  voice  touched  with  the  sharpness  of  one  used 
to  authority. 

"Plain  robbing,  Miss,  that 's  all.  I  came 
snoopin'  around  to  see  what  I  could  gather  up. 
I  thought  you  wan't  to  home,  seein'  as  I  saw  you 
pull  out  with  your  old  man  in  an  auto.  I  reckon 
that  must  a  ben  your  pa,  and  you  're  Miss 
Setliffe." 

Mrs.  Setliffe  saw  his  mistake,  appreciated  the 
nai've  compliment,  and  decided  not  to  undeceive 
him. 

"How  do  you  know  I  am  Miss  Setliffe  ?"  she 
asked. 

"This  is  old  Setliffe's  house,  ain't  it?" 

She  nodded. 

"I  did  n't  know  he  had  a  daughter,  but  I 
reckon  you  must  be  her.  And  now,  if  it  ain't 

217 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

botherin'  you  too  much,  I  'd  sure  be  obliged  if 
you  Jd  show  me  the  way  out." 

"But  why  should  I?  You  are  a  robber,  a 
burglar." 

"If  I  wan't  an  ornery  shorthorn  at  the  busi 
ness,  I  'd  be  accumulatin'  them  rings  on  your 
fingers  instead  of  being  polite,"  he  retorted.  "I 
come  to  make  a  raise  outa  old  Setliffe,  and 
not  to  be  robbing  women-folks.  If  you  get 
outa  the  way,  I  reckon  I  can  find  my  own  way 


out." 


Mrs.  Setliffe  was  a  keen  woman,  and  she  felt 
that  from  such  a  man  there  was  little  to  fear. 
That  he  was  not  a  typical  criminal,  she  was  cer 
tain.  From  his  speech  she  knew  he  was  not  of 
the  cities,  and  she  seemed  to  sense  the  wider, 
homelier  air  of  large  spaces. 

"Suppose  I  screamed?"  she  queried  curiously. 
"Suppose  I  made  an  outcry  for  help?  You 
couldn't  shoot  me?  ...  a  woman?" 

She  noted  the  fleeting  bafflement  in  his  brown 
eyes.  He  answered  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  as 
if  working  out  a  difficult  problem. 

"I  reckon,  then,  I  Jd  have  to  choke  you  and 
maul  you  some  bad." 

"A  woman?" 

218 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

"I  'd  sure  have  to,"  he  answered,  and  she  saw 
his  mouth  set  grimly.  "You  're  only  a  soft 
woman,  but  you  see,  Miss,  I  can't  afford  to  go  to 
jail.  No,  Miss,  I  sure  can't.  There  's  a  friend 
of  mine  waitin'  for  me  out  West.  He  's  in  a 
hole,  and  I  've  got  to  help  him  out."  The  mouth 
shaped  even  more  grimly.  "I  guess  I  could  choke 
you  without  hurting  you  much  to  speak  of." 

Her  eyes  took  on  a  baby  stare  of  innocent  in 
credulity  as  she  watched  him. 

"I  never  met  a  burglar  before,"  she  assured 
him,  "and  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you  how  interested 
I  am." 

"I'm  not  a  burglar,  Miss.  Not  a  real  one," 
he  hastened  to  add  as  she  looked  her  amused  un 
belief.  "It  looks  like  it,  me  being  here  in  your 
house.  But  it 's  the  first  time  I  ever  tackled  such 
a  job.  I  needed  the  money — bad.  Besides,  I 
kind  of  look  on  it  like  collecting  what 's  coming 
to  me." 

"I  don't  understand,"  she  smiled  encourag 
ingly.  "You  came  here  to  rob,  and  to  rob  is 
to  take  what  is  not  yours." 

"Yes,  and  no,  in  this  here  particular  case. 
But  I  reckon  I  'd  better  be  going  now."  . 

He  started  for  the  door  of  the  dining-room, 
219 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

but  she  interposed,  and  a  very  beautiful  obstacle 
she  made  of  herself.  His  left  hand  went  out  as 
if  to  grip  her,  then  hesitated.  He  was  patently 
awed  by  her  soft  womanhood. 

"There!"  she  cried  triumphantly.  "I  knew 
you  wouldn't." 

The  man  was  embarrassed. 

"I  ain't  never  manhandled  a  woman  yet,"  he 
explained,  "and  it  don't  come  easy.  But  I  sure 
will,  if  you  set  to  screaming." 

"Won't  you  stay  a  few  minutes  and  talk*?"  she 
urged.  "I'm  so  interested.  I  should  like  to 
hear  you  explain  how  burglary  is  collecting  what 
is  coming  to  you." 

He  looked  at  her  admiringly. 

"I  always  thought  women-folks  were  scairt  of 
robbers,"  he  confessed.  "But  you  don't  seem 
none." 

She  laughed  gaily. 

"There  are  robbers  and  robbers,  you  know.  I 
am  not  afraid  of  you,  because  I  am  confident  you 
are  not  the  sort  of  creature  that  would  harm 
a  woman.  Come,  talk  with  me  a  while.  No 
body  will  disturb  us.  I  am  all  alone.  My — 
my  father  caught  the  night  train  to  New  York. 
The  servants  are  all  asleep.  I  should  like  to 

220 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

give  you  something  to  eat — women  always  pre 
pare  midnight  suppers  for  the  burglars  they  catch, 
at  least  they  do  in  the  magazine  stories.  But  I 
don't  know  where  to  find  the  food.  Perhaps 
you  will  have  something  to  drink  ?" 

He  hesitated,  and  did  not  reply;  but  she  could 
see  the  admiration  for  her  growing  in  his  eyes. 

"You  're  not  afraid4?"  she  queried.  "I  won't 
poison  you,  I  promise.  I  '11  drink  with  you  to 
show  you  it  is  all  right." 

"You  sure  are  a  surprise  package  of  all  right," 
he  declared,  for  the  first  time  lowering  the  weapon 
and  letting  it  hang  at  his  side.  "No  one  don't 
need  to  tell  me  ever  again  that  women-folks  in 
cities  is  afraid.  You  ain't  much — just  a  little 
soft  pretty  thing.  But  you've  sure  got  the 
spunk.  And  you  're  trustful  on  top  of  it. 
There  ain't  many  women,  or  men  either,  who  'd 
treat  a  man  with  a  gun  the  way  you  're  treating 


me." 


She  smiled  her  pleasure  in  the  compliment,  and 
her  face  was  very  earnest  as  she  said: 

"That  is  because  I  like  your  appearance.  You 
are  too  decent-looking  a  man  to  be  a  robber. 
You  oughtn't  to  do  such  things.  If  you  are  in 
bad  luck  you  should  go  to  work.  Come,  put 

221 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

away  that  nasty  revolver  and  let  us  talk  it  over. 
The  thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  work." 

"Not  in  this  burg,"  he  commented  bitterly. 
"I  've  walked  two  inches  off  the  bottom  of  my 
legs  trying  to  find  a  job.  Honest,  I  was  a  fine 
large  man  once  .  .  .  before  I  started  look 
ing  for  a  job." 

The  merry  laughter  with  which  she  greeted  his 
sally  obviously  pleased  him,  and  she  was  quick 
to  note  and  take  advantage  of  it.  She  moved 
directly  away  from  the  door  and  toward  the  side 
board. 

"Come,  you  must  tell  me  all  about  it  while  I 
get  that  drink  for  you.  What  will  it  be'? 
Whisky4?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  he  said,  as  he  followed  her, 
though  he  still  carried  the  big  revolver  at  his  side, 
and  though  he  glanced  reluctantly  at  the  un 
guarded  open  door. 

She  filled  a  glass  for  him  at  the  sideboard. 

"I  promised  to  drink  with  you,"  she  said 
hesitatingly.  "But  I  don't  like  whisky.  I 
.  .  .  I  prefer  sherry." 

She  lifted  the  sherry  bottle  tentatively  for  his 
consent. 

"Sure,"  he  answered,  with  a  nod.     "Whisky  's 

222 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

a  man's  drink.  I  never  like  to  see  women  at  it. 
Wine  's  more  their  stuff." 

She  raised  her  glass  to  his,  her  eyes  meltingly 
sympathetic. 

"Here  's  to  finding  you  a  good  position — " 

But  she  broke  off  at  sight  of  the  expression  of 
surprised  disgust  on  his  face.  The  glass,  barely 
touched,  was  removed  from  his  wry  lips. 

"What  is  the  matter*?"  she  asked  anxiously. 
"Don't  you  like  it?  Have  I  made  a  mistake?" 

"It 's  sure  funny  whisky.  Tastes  like  it  got 
burned  and  smoked  in  the  making." 

"Oh!  How  silly  of  me!  I  gave  you  Scotch. 
Of  course  you  are  accustomed  to  rye.  Let  me 
change  it." 

She  was  almost  solicitiously  maternal,  as  she 
replaced  the  glass  with  another  and  sought  and 
found  the  proper  bottle. 

"Better?"  she  asked.      , 

"Yes,  ma'am.  No  smoke  in  it.  It 's  sure  the 
real  good  stuff.  I  ain't  had  a  drink  in  a  week. 
Kind  of  slick,  that;  oily,  you  know;  not  made 
in  a  chemical  factory." 

"You  are  a  drinking  man?" 

It  was  half  a  question,  half  a  challenge. 

"No,  ma'am,  not  to  speak  of.  I  have  rared  up 
223 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

and  ripsnorted  at  spells,  but  most  unfrequent. 
But  there  is  times  when  a  good  stiff  jolt  lands 
on  the  right  spot  kerchunk,  and  this  is  sure  one 
of  them.  And  now,  thanking  you  for  your  kind 
ness,  ma'am,  I  '11  just  be  a  pulling  along." 

But  Mrs.  Setliffe  did  not  want  to  lose  her 
burglar.  She  was  too  poised  a  woman  to  possess 
much  romance,  but  there  was  a  thrill  about  the 
present  situation  that  delighted  her.  Besides, 
she  knew  there  was  no  danger.  The  man,  de 
spite  his  jaw  and  the  steady  brown  eyes,  was 
eminently  tractable.  Also,  farther  back  in  her 
consciousness  glimmered  the  thought  of  an  audi 
ence  of  admiring  friends.  It  was  too  bad  not  to 
have 'that  audience. 

"You  have  n't  explained  how  burglary,  in  your 
case,  is  merely  collecting  what 's  your  own,"  she 
said.  "Come,  sit  down,  and  tell  me  about  it — 
here  at  the  table." 

She  maneuvered  for  her  own  seat,  and  placed 
him  across  the  corner  from  her.  His  alertness 
had  not  deserted  him,  as  she  noted,  and  his  eyes 
roved  sharply  about,  returning  always  with 
smoldering  admiration  to  hers,  but  never  rest 
ing  long.  And  she  noted  likewise  that  while  she 
spoke  he  was  intent  on  listening  for  other  sounds 

224 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

than  those  of  her  voice.  Nor  had  he  relinquished 
the  revolver,  which  lay  at  the  corner  of  the  table 
between  them,  the  butt  close  to  his  right  hand. 

But  he  was  in  a  new  habitat  which  he  did  not 
know.  This  man  from  the  West,  cunning  in 
woodcraft  and  plainscraft,  with  eyes  and  ears 
open,  tense  and  suspicious,  did  not  know  that  un 
der  the  table,  close  to  her  foot,  was  the  push 
button  of  an  electric  bell.  He  had  never  heard 
nor  dreamed  of  such  a  contrivance,  and  his  keen 
ness  and  wariness  went  for  naught. 

"It's  like  this,  Miss,"  he  began,  in  response 
to  her  urging.  "Old  Setliffe  done  me  up  in  a 
little  deal  once.  It  was  raw,  but  it  worked. 
Anything  will  work  full  and  legal  when  it 's  got 
a  few  hundred  million  behind  it.  I'm  not 
squealin',  and  I  ain't  taking  a  slam  at  your  pa. 
He  don't  know  me  from  Adam,  and  I  reckon  he 
don't  know  he  done  me  outa  anything.  He  's  too 
big,  thinking  and  dealing  in  millions,  to  ever  hear 
of  a  small  potato  like  me.  He 's  an  operator. 
He 's  got  all  kinds  of  experts  thinking  and  plan 
ning  and  working  for  him,  some  of  them,  I  hear, 
getting  more  cash  salary  than  the  President  of 
the  United  States.  I  'm  only  one  of  thousands 
that  have  been  done  up  by  your  pa,  that 's  all. 

225 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

"You  see,  ma'am,  I  had  a  little  hole  in  the 
ground — a  dinky,  hydraulic,  one-horse  outfit  of  a 
mine.  And  when  the  Setliffe  crowd  shook  down 
Idaho,  and  reorganized  the  smelter  trust,  and 
roped  in  the  rest  of  the  landscape,  and  put 
through  the  big  hydraulic  scheme  at  Twin  Pines, 
why  I  sure  got  squeezed.  I  never  had  a  run  for 
my  money.  I  was  scratched  off  the  card  before 
the  first  heat.  And  so,  to-night,  being  broke  and 
my  friend  needing  me  bad,  I  just  dropped  around 
to  make  a  raise  outa  your  pa.  Seeing  as  I  needed 
it,  it  kinda  was  coming  to  me." 

"Granting  all  that  you  say  is  so,"  she  said, 
"nevertheless  it  does  not  make  house-breaking 
any  the  less  house-breaking.  YOU  could  n't 
make  such  a  defense  in  a  court  of  law." 

"I  know  that,"  he  confessed  meekly.  "What 's 
right  ain't  always  legal.  And  that 's  why  I  am 
so  uncomfortable  a-settin'  here  and  talking  with 
you.  Not  that  I  ain't  enjoying  your  company — 
I  sure  do  enjoy  it — but  I  just  can't  afford  to  be 
caught.  I  know  what  they  'd  do  to  me  in  this 
here  city.  There  was  a  young  fellow  that  got 
fifty  years  only  last  week  for  holding  a  man  up 
on  the  street  for  two  dollars  and  eighty-five  cents. 
I  read  about  it  in  the  paper.  When  times  is  hard 

226 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

and  they  ain't  no  work,  men  get  desperate.  And 
then  the  other  men  who  've  got  something  to  be 
robbed  of  get  desperate,  too,  and  they  just  sure 
soak  it  to  the  other  fellows.  If  I  got  caught,  I 
reckon  I  wouldn't  get  a  mite  less  than  ten 
years.  That 's  why  I  'm  hankering  to  be  on  my 
way." 

"No;  wait."  She  lifted  a  detaining  hand,  at 
the  same  time  removing  her  foot  from  the  bell, 
which  she  had  been  pressing  intermittently. 
"You  have  n't  told  me  your  name  yet." 

He  hesitated. 

"Call  me  Dave." 

"Then  .  .  .  Dave  .  .  ."  she  laughed 
with  pretty  confusion.  "Something  must  be 
done  for  you.  You  are  a  young  man,  and  you 
are  just  at  the  beginning  of  a  bad  start.  If  you 
begin  by  attempting  to  collect  what  you  think  is 
coming  to  you,  later  on  you  will  be  collecting 
what  you  are  perfectly  sure  is  n't  coming  to  you. 
And  you  know  what  the  end  will  be.  Instead  of 
this,  we  must  find  something  honorable  for  you 
to  do." 

"I  need  the  money,  and  I  need  it  now,"  he  re 
plied  doggedly.  "It's  not  for  myself,  but  for 
that  friend  I  told  you  about.  He  's  in  a  peck 

227 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

of  trouble,  and  he  's  got  to  get  his  lift  now  or  not 
at  all." 

"I  can  find  you  a  position,"  she  said  quickly. 
"And — yes,  the  very  thing! — I'll  lend  you  the 
money  you  want  to  send  to  your  friend.  This 
you  can  pay  back  out  of  your  salary." 

"About  three  hundred  would  do,"  he  said 
slowly.  "Three  hundred  would  pull  him 
through.  I  'd  work  my  fingers  off  for  a  year  for 
that,  and  my  keep,  and  a  few  cents  to  buy  Bull 
Durham  with." 

"Ah!     You  smoke!     I  never  thought  of  it." 

Her  hand  went  out  over  the  revolver  toward 
his  hand,  as  she  pointed  to  the  tell-tale  yellow 
stain  on  his  fingers.  At  the  same  time  her  eyes 
measured  the  nearness  of  her  own  hand  and  of 
his  to  the  weapon.  She  ached  to  grip  it  in  one 
swift  movement.  She  was  sure  she  could  do  it, 
and  yet  she  was  not  sure;  and  so  it  was  that  she 
refrained  as  she  withdrew  her  hand. 

"Won't  you  smoked"  she  invited. 

"I  'm  'most  dying  to." 

"Then  do  so.  I  don't  mind.  I  really  like 
it — cigarettes,  I  mean." 

With  his  left  hand  he  dipped  into  his  side 
pocket,  brought  out  a  loose  wheat-straw  paper, 

228 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

and  shifted  it  to  his  right  hand  close  by  the  re 
volver.  Again  he  dipped,  transferring  to  the 
paper  a  pinch  of  brown,  flaky  tobacco.  Then  he 
proceeded,  both  hands  just  over  the  revolver,  to 
roll  the  cigarette. 

"From  the  way  you  hover  close  to  that  nasty 
weapon,  you  seem  to  be  afraid  of  me,"  she  chal 
lenged. 

"Not  exactly  afraid  of  you,  ma'am,  but,  under 
the  circumstances,  just  a  mite  timid." 

"But  I  've  not  been  afraid  of  you." 

"You  've  got  nothing  to  lose." 

"My  life,"  she  retorted. 

"That 's  right,"  he  acknowledged  promptly. 
"And  you  ain't  been  scairt  of  me.  Mebbe  I  am 
over  anxious." 

"I  would  n't  cause  you  any  harm."  Even  as 
she  spoke,  her  slipper  felt  for  the  bell  and  pressed 
it.  At  the  same  time  her  eyes  were  earnest  with 
a  plea  of  honesty.  "You  are  a  judge  of  men. 
I  know  it.  And  of  women.  Surely,  when  I  am 
trying  to  persuade  you  from  a  criminal  life  and 
to  get  you  honest  work  to  do  .  .  .  ?" 

He  was  immediately  contrite. 

"I  sure  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "I 
reckon  my  nervousness  ain't  complimentary." 

229 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

As  he  spoke,  he  drew  his  right  hand  from  the 
table,  and  after  lighting  the  cigarette,  dropped 
it  by  his  side. 

"Thank  you  for  your  confidence,"  she  breathed 
softly,  resolutely  keeping  her  eyes  from  measur 
ing  the  distance  to  the  revolver,  and  keeping  her 
foot  pressed  firmly  on  the  bell. 

"About  that  three  hundred,"  he  began.  "I 
can  telegraph  it  West  to-night.  And  I  '11  agree 
to  work  a  year  for  it  and  my  keep." 

"You  will  earn  more  than  that.  I  can  prom 
ise  seventy-five  dollars  a  month  at  the  least.  Do 
you  know  horses?" 

His  face  lighted  up  and  his  eyes  sparkled. 

"Then  go  to  work  for  me — or  for  my  father, 
rather,  though  I  engage  all  the  servants.  I  need 
a  second  coachman — " 

"And  wear  a  uniform?"  he  interrupted  sharply, 
the  sneer  of  the  free-born  West  in  his  voice  and 
on  his  lips. 

She  smiled  tolerantly. 

"Evidently  that  won't  do.  Let  me  think. 
Yes.  Can  you  break  and  handle  colts?" 

He  nodded. 

"We  have  a  stock  farm,  and  there  's  room  for 
just  such  a  man  as  you.  Will  you  take  it?" 

230 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

"Will  I,  ma'am*?"  His  voice  was  rich  with 
gratitude  and  enthusiasm.  "Show  me  to  it. 
I  '11  dig  right  in  to-morrow.  And  I  can  sure 
promise  you  one  thing,  ma'am.  You  '11  never 
be  sorry  for  lending  Hughie  Luke  a  hand  in  his 
trouble—" 

"I  thought  you  said  to  call  you  Dave,"  she 
chided  forgivingly. 

"I  did,  ma'am.  I  did.  And  I  sure  beg  your 
pardon.  It  was  just  plain  bluff.  My  real  name 
is  Hughie  Luke.  And  if  you  '11  give  me  the  ad 
dress  of  that  stock  farm  of  yours,  and  the  rail 
road  fare,  I  head  for  it  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

Throughout  the  conversation  she  had  never  re 
laxed  her  attempts  on  the  bell.  She  had  pressed 
it  in  every  alarming  way — three  shorts  and  a  long, 
two  and  a  long,  and  five.  She  had  tried  long 
series  of  shorts,  and,  once,  she  had  held  the  but 
ton  down  for  a  solid  three  minutes.  And  she 
had  been  divided  between  objurgation  of  the 
stupid,  heavy-sleeping  butler  and  doubt  if  the 
bell  were  in  order. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  said;  "so  glad  that  you  are 
willing.  There  won't  be  much  to  arrange.  But 
you  will  first  have  to  trust  me  while  I  go  upstairs 

231 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

for  my  purse."  She  saw  the  doubt  flicker  mom 
entarily  in  his  eyes,  and  added  hastily,  "But  you 
see  I  am  trusting  you  with  the  three  hundred  dol 
lars." 

"I  believe  you,  ma'am,"  he  came  back  gal 
lantly.  "Though  I  just  can't  help  this  nervous 
ness." 

"Shall  I  go  and  get  it?" 

But  before  she  could  receive  consent,  a  slight 
muffled  jar  from  the  distance  came  to  her  ear. 
She  knew  it  for  the  swing-door  of  the  butler's 
pantry.  But  so  slight  was  it — more  a  faint 
vibration  than  a  sound — that  she  would  not  have 
heard  had  not  her  ears  been  keyed  and  listening 
for  it.  Yet  the  man  had  heard.  He  was  startled 
in  his  composed  way. 

"What  was  that4?"  he  demanded. 

For  answer,  her  left  hand  flashed  out  to  the 
revolver  and  brought  it  back.  She  had  had  the 
start  of  him,  and  she  needed  it,  for  the  next  in 
stant  his  hand  leaped  up  from  his  side,  clutching 
emptiness  where  the  revolver  had  been. 

"Sit  down!"  she  commanded  sharply,  in  a 
voice  new  to  him.  "Don't  move.  Keep  your 
hands  on  the  table." 

She  had  taken  a  lesson  from  him.  Instead  of 
232 


TO  KILL  A  MAN 

holding  the  heavy  weapon  extended,  the  butt  of 
it  and  her  forearm  rested  on  the  table,  the  muzzle 
pointed,  not  at  his  head,  but  his  chest.  And  he, 
looking  coolly  and  obeying  her  commands,  knew 
there  was  no  chance  of  the  kick-up  of  the  recoil 
producing  a  miss.  Also,  he  saw  that  the  revolver 
did  not  wabble,  nor  the  hand  shake,  and  he  was 
thoroughly  conversant  with  the  size  of  hole  the 
soft-nosed  bullets  could  make.  He  had  eyes, 
not  for  her,  but  for  the  hammer,  which  had 
risen  under  the  pressure  of  her  forefinger  on  the 
trigger. 

"I  reckon  I  'd  best  warn  you  that  that  there 
trigger-pull  is  filed  dreadful  fine.  Don't  press 
too  hard,  or  I'll  have  a  hole  in  me  the  size  of  a 
walnut." 

She  slacked  the  hammer  partly  down. 

"That's  better,"  he  commented.  "You'd 
best  put  it  down  all  the  way.  You  see  how  easy 
it  works.  If  you  want  to,  a  quick  light  pull  will 
jiffy  her  up  and  back  and  make  a  pretty  mess  all 
over  your  nice  floor." 

A  door  opened  behind  him,  and  he  heard  some 
body  enter  the  room.  But  he  did  not  turn  his 
head.  He  was  looking  at  her,  and  he  found  it 
the  face  of  another  woman — hard,  cold,  pitiless, 

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TO  KILL  A  MAN 

yet  brilliant  in  its  beauty.  The  eyes,  too,  were 
hard,  though  blazing  with  a  cold  light. 

"Thomas,"  she  commanded,  "go  to  the  tele 
phone  and  call  the  police.  Why  were  you  so 
long  in  answering?" 

"I  came  as  soon  as  I  heard  the  bell,  madam," 
was  the  answer. 

The  robber  never  took  his  eyes  from  hers,  nor 
did  she  from  his,  but  at  mention  of  the  bell  she 
noticed  that  his  eyes  were  puzzled  for  the  mo 
ment. 

"Beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  butler  from  be 
hind,  "but  would  n't  it  be  better  for  me  to  get 
a  weapon  and  arouse  the  servants'?" 

"No ;  ring  for  the  police.  I  can  hold  this  man. 
Go  and  do  it — quickly." 

The  butler  slippered  out  of  the  room,  and  the 
man  and  the  woman  sat  on,  gazing  into  each 
other's  eyes.  To  her  it  was  an  experience  keen 
with  enjoyment,  and  in  her  mind  was  the  gossip 
of  her  crowd,  and  she  saw  notes  in  the  society 
weeklies  of  the  beautiful  young  Mrs.  Setliffe  cap 
turing  an  armed  robber  single-handed.  It  would 
create  a  sensation,  she  was  sure. 

"When  you  get  that  sentence  you  mentioned," 
she  said  coldly,  "you  will  have  time  to  meditate 

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TO  KILL  A  MAN 

upon  what  a  fool  you  have  been,  taking  other 
persons'  property  and  threatening  women  with 
revolvers.  You  will  have  time  to  learn  your 
lesson  thoroughly.  Now  tell  the  truth.  You 
have  n't  any  friend  in  trouble.  All  that  you  told 
me  was  lies." 

He  did  not  reply.  Though  his  eyes  were  upon 
her,  they  seemed  blank.  In  truth,  for  the  instant 
she  was  veiled  to  him,  and  what  he  saw  was  the 
wide  sunwashed  spaces  of  the  West,  where  men 
and  women  were  bigger  than  the  rotten  denizens, 
as  he  had  encountered  them,  of  the  thrice  rotten 
cities  of  the  East. 

"Go  on.  Why  don't  you  speak4?  Why  don't 
you  lie  some  more?  Why  don't  you  beg  to  be 
let  off?" 

"I  might,"  he  answered,  licking  his  dry  lips. 
"I  might  ask  to  be  let  off  if  .  .  ." 

"If  what?"  she  demanded  peremptorily,  as  he 
paused. 

"I  was  trying  to  think  of  a  word  you  reminded 
me  of.  As  I  was  saying,  I  might  if  you  was  a 
decent  woman." 

Her  face  paled. 

"Be  careful,"  she  warned. 

"You  don't  dast  kill  me,"  he  sneered.  "The 
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TO  KILL  A  MAN 

world  's  a  pretty  low  down  place  to  have  a  thing 
like  you  prowling  around  in  it,  but  it  ain't  so 
plumb  low  down,  I  reckon,  as  to  let  you  put  a 
hole  in  me.  You  're  sure  bad,  but  the  trouble 
with  you  is  that  you  're  weak  in  your  badness. 
It  ain't  much  to  kill  a  man,  but  you  ain't  got  it 
in  you.  There 's  where  you  lose  out." 

"Be  careful  of  what  you  say,"  she  repeated. 
"Or  else,  I  warn  you,  it  will  go  hard  with  you. 
It  can  be  seen  to  whether  your  sentence  is  light 
or  heavy." 

"Something's  the  matter  with  God,"  he  re 
marked  irrelevantly,  "to  be  letting  you  around 
loose.  It 's  clean  beyond  me  what  he  's  up  to, 
playing  such-like  tricks  on  poor  humanity.  Now 
if  I  was  God—" 

His  further  opinion  was  interrupted  by  the  en 
trance  of  the  butler. 

"Something  is  wrong  with  the  telephone, 
madam,"  he  announced.  "The  wires  are  crossed 
or  something,  because  I  can't  get  Central." 

"Go  and  call  one  of  the  servants,"  she  ordered. 
"Send  him  out  for  an  officer,  and  then  return 
here." 

Again  the  pair  was  left  alone. 

"Will  you  kindly  answer  one  question, 
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TO  KILL  A  MAN 

ma'am?"  the  man  said.  "That  servant  fellow 
said  something  about  a  bell.  I  matched  you  like 
a  cat,  and  you  sure  rung  no  bell." 

"It  was  under  the  table,  you  poor  fool.  I 
pressed  it  with  my  foot." 

"Thank  you,  ma'am.  I  reckoned  I  'd  seen  your 
kind  before,  and  now  I  sure  know  I  have.  I 
spoke  to  you  true  and  trusting,  and  all  the  time 
you  was  lying  like  hell  to  me." 

She  laughed  mockingly. 

"Go  on.  Say  what  you  wish.  It  is  very  in 
teresting." 

"You  made  eyes  at  me,  looking  soft  and 
kind,  playing  up  all  the  time  the  fact  that  you 
wore  skirts  instead  ojf  pants — and  all  the  time 
with  your  foot  on  the  bell  under  the  table. 
Well,  there  's  some  consolation.  I  'd  sooner  be 
poor  Hughie  Luke,  doing  his  ten  years,  than  be 
in  your  skin.  Ma'am,  hell  is  full  of  women  like 
you." 

There  was  silence  for  a  space,  in  which  the 
man,  never  taking  his  eyes  from  her,  studying 
her,  was  making  up  his  mind. 

"Go  on,"  she  urged.     "Say  something." 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  '11  say  something.  I  '11  sure 
say  something.  Do  you  know  what  I  'm  going 

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TO  KILL  A  MAN 

to  do*?  I  'm  going  to  get  right  up  from  this  chair 
and  walk  out  that  door.  I  'd  take  the  gun  from 
you,  only  you  might  turn  foolish  and  let  it  go 
off.  You  can  have  the  gun.  It  's  a  good  one. 
As  I  was  saying,  I  am  going  right  out  that  door. 
And  you  ain't  going  to  pull  that  gun  off 
either.  It  takes  guts  to  shoot  a  man,  and  you 
sure  ain't  got  them.  Now  get  ready  and  see  if 
you  can  pull  that  trigger.  I  ain't  going  to  harm 
you.  I.'m  going  out  that  door,  and  I  'm  start 
ing." 

Keeping  his  eyes  fixed  on  her,  he  pushed  back 
the  chair  and  slowly  stood  erect.  The  hammer 
rose  halfway.  She  watched  it.  So  did  he. 

"Pull  harder,"  he  advised.  "It  ain't  half  up 
yet.  Go  on  and  pull  it  and  kill  a  man.  That 's 
what  I  said,  kill  a  man,  spatter  his  brains  out  on 
the  floor,  or  slap  a  hole  into  him  the  size  of  your 
fist.  That 's  what  killing  a  man  means." 

The  hammer  lowered  jerkily  but  gently.  The 
man  turned  his  back  and  walked  slowly  to  the 
door.  She  swung  the  revolver  around  so  that  it 
bore  on  his  back.  Twice  again  the  hammer  came 
up  halfway  and  was  reluctantly  eased  down. 

At  the  door  the  man  turned  for  a  moment  be 
fore  passing  on.  A  sneer  was  on  his  lips.  He 

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TO  KILL  A  MAN 

spoke  to  her  in  a  low  voice,  almost  drawling,  but 
in  it  was  the  quintessence  of  all  loathing  as  he 
called  her  a  name  unspeakable  and  vile. 


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THE  MEXICAN 

NOBODY  knew  his  history— they  of  the 
Junta  least  of  all.  He  was  their  "little 
mystery,"  their  "big  patriot,"  and  in  his  way  he 
worked  as  hard  for  the  coming  Mexican  Revolu 
tion  as  did  they.  They  were  tardy  in  recogniz 
ing  this,  for  not  one  of  the  Junta  liked  him. 
The  day  he  first  drifted  into  their  crowded,  busy 
rooms,  they  all  suspected  him  of  being  a  spy — 
one  of  the  bought  tools  of  the  Diaz  secret  serv 
ice.  Too  many  of  the  comrades  were  in  civil  and 
military  prisons  scattered  over  the  United  States, 
and  others  of  them,  in  irons,  were  even  then  being 
taken  across  the  border  to  be  lined  up  against 
adobe  walls  and  shot. 

At  the  first  sight  the  boy  did  not  impress  them 
favorably.  Boy  he  was,  not  more  than  eighteen 
and  not  over  large  for  his  years.  He  announced 
that  he  was  Felipe  Rivera,  and  that  it  was  his 
wish  to  work  for  the  Revolution.  That  was  all 
— not  a  wasted  word,  no  further  explanation. 
He  stood  waiting.  There  was  no  smile  on  his 
lips,  no  geniality  in  his  eyes.  Big  dashing 

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Paulino  Vera  felt  an  inward  shudder.  Here  was 
something  forbidding,  terrible,  inscrutable.  There 
was  something  venomous  and  snakelike  in  the 
boy's  black  eyes.  They  burned  like  cold  fire,  as 
with  a  vast,  concentrated  bitterness.  He  flashed 
them  from  the  faces  of  the  conspirators  to  the 
typewriter  which  little  Mrs.  Sethby  was  indus 
triously  operating.  His  eyes  rested  on  hers  but 
an  instant — she  had  chanced  to  look  up— and  she, 
too,  sensed  the  nameless  something  that  made  her 
pause.  She  was  compelled  to  read  back  in  order 
to  regain  the  swing  of  the  letter  she  was  writing. 

Paulino  Vera  looked  questioningly  at  Arrellano 
and  Ramos,  and  questioningly  they  looked  back 
and  to  each  other.  The  indecision  of  doubt 
brooded  in  their  eyes.  This  slender  boy  was  the 
Unknown,  vested  with  all  the  menace  of  the  Un 
known.  He  was  unrecognizable,  something  quite 
beyond  the  ken  of  honest,  ordinary  revolutionists 
whose  fiercest  hatred  for  Diaz  and  his  tyranny 
after  all  was  only  that  of  honest  and  ordinary 
patriots.  Here  was  something  else,  they  knew 
not  what.  But  Vera,  always  the  most  impulsive, 
the  quickest  to  act,  stepped  into  the  breach. 

"Very  well,"  he  said  coldly.  "You  say  you 
want  to  work  for  the  Revolution.  Take  off  your 

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THE  MEXICAN 

coat.  Hang  it  over  there.  I  will  show  you — 
come — where  are  the  buckets  and  cloths.  The 
floor  is  dirty.  You  will  begin  by  scrubbing  it, 
and  by  scrubbing  the  floors  of  the  other  rooms. 
The  spittoons  need  to  be  cleaned.  Then  there 
are  the  windows." 

"Is  it  for  the  Revolution*?"  the  boy  asked. 

"It  is  for  the  Revolution,"  Vera  answered. 

Rivera  looked  cold  suspicion  at  all  of  them, 
then  proceeded  to  take  off  his  coat. 

"It  is  well,"  he  said. 

And  nothing  more.  Day  after  day  he  came 
to  his  work — sweeping,  scrubbing,  cleaning.  He 
emptied  the  ashes  from  the  stoves,  brought  up 
the  coal  and  kindling,  and  lighted  the  fires  be 
fore  the  most  energetic  one  of  them  was  at  his 
desk. 

"Can  I  sleep  here?"  he  asked  once. 

Ah,  ha!  So  that  was  it — the  hand  of  Diaz 
showing  through!  To  sleep  in  the  rooms  of  the 
Junta  meant  access  to  their  secrets,  to  the  lists  of 
names,  to  the  addresses  of  comrades  down  on 
Mexican  soil.  The  request  was  denied,  and 
Rivera  never  spoke  of  it  again.  He  slept  they 
knew  not  where,  and  ate  they  knew  not  where 
nor  how.  Once,  Arrellano  offered  him  a  couple 

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of  dollars.  Rivera  declined  the  money  with  a 
shake  of  the  head.  When  Vera  joined  in  and 
tried  to  press  it  upon  him,  he  said: 
"I  am  working  for  the  Revolution." 
It  takes  money  to  raise  a  modern  revolution, 
and  always  the  Junta  was  pressed.  The  mem 
bers  starved  and  toiled,  and  the  longest  day  was 
none  too  long,  and  yet  there  were  times  when  it 
appeared  as  if  the  Revolution  stood  or  fell  on 
no  more  than  the  matter  of  a  few  dollars.  Once, 
the  first  time,  when  the  rent  of  the  house  was  two 
months  behind  and  the  landlord  was  threatening 
dispossession,  it  was  Felipe  Rivera,  the  scrub-boy 
in  the  poor,  cheap  clothes,  worn  and  threadbare, 
who  laid  sixty  dollars  in  gold  on  May  Sethby's 
desk.  There  were  other  times.  Three  hundred 
letters,  clicked  out  on  the  busy  typewriters  (ap 
peals  for  assistance,  for  sanctions  from  the  or 
ganized  labor  groups,  requests  for  square  news 
deals  to  the  editors  of  newspapers,  protests  against 
the  high-handed  treatment  of  revolutionists  by 
the  United  States  courts),  lay  unmailed,  await 
ing  postage.  Vera's  watch  had  disappeared — 
the  old-fashioned  gold  repeater  that  had  been  his 
father's.  Likewise  had  gone  the  plain  gold  band 
from  May  Sethby's  third  finger.  Things  were 

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desperate.  Ramos  and  Arrellano  pulled  their 
long  mustaches  in  despair.  The  letters  must  go 
off,  and  the  Post  Office  allowed  no  credit  to  pur 
chasers  of  stamps.  Then  it  was  that  Rivera  put 
on  his  hat  and  went  out.  When  he  came  back 
he  laid  a  thousand  two-cent  stamps  on  May 
Sethby's  desk. 

"I  wonder  if  it  is  the  cursed  gold  of  Diaz?" 
said  Vera  to  the  comrades. 

They  elevated  their  brows  and  could  not  de 
cide.  And  Felipe  Rivera,  the  scrubber  for  the 
Revolution,  continued,  as  occasion  arose,  to  lay 
down  gold  and  silver  for  the  Junta's  use. 

And  still  they  could  not  bring  themselves  to 
like  him.  They  did  not  know  him.  His  ways 
were  not  theirs.  He  gave  no  confidences.  He 
repelled  all  probing.  Youth  that  he  was,  they 
could  never  nerve  themselves  to  dare  to  question 
him. 

"A  great  and  lonely  spirit,  perhaps,  I  do  not 
know,  I  do  not  know,"  Arrellano  said  helplessly. 

"He  is  not  human,"  said  Ramos. 

"His  soul  has  been  seared,"  said  May  Sethby. 
"Light  and  laughter  have  been  burned  out  of 
him.  He  is  like  one  dead,  and  yet  he  is  fearfully 
alive." 

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"He  has  been  through  hell,"  said  Vera.  "No 
man  could  look  like  that  who  has  not  been  through 
hell — and  he  is  only  a  boy." 

Yet  they  could  not  like  him.  He  never  talked, 
never  inquired,  never  suggested.  He  would  stand 
listening,  expressionless,  a  thing  dead,  save  for 
his  eyes,  coldly  burning,  while  their  talk  of  the 
Revolution  ran  high  and  warm.  From  face  to 
face  and  speaker  to  speaker  his  eyes  would  turn, 
boring  like  gimlets  of  incandescent  ice,  discon 
certing  and  perturbing. 

"He  is  no  spy,"  Vera  confided  to  May  Sethby. 
"He  is  a  patriot — mark  me,  the  greatest  patriot 
of  us  all.  I  know  it,  I  feel  it,  here  in  my  heart 
and  head  I  feel  it.  But  him  I  know  not  at  all." 

"He  has  a  bad  temper,"  said  May  Sethby. 

"I  know,"  said  Vera,  with  a  shudder.  "He 
has  looked  at  me  with  those  eyes  of  his.  They 
do  not  love;  they  threaten;  they  are  savage  as  a 
wild  tiger's.  I  know,  if  I  should  prove  unfaith 
ful  to  the  Cause,  that  he  would  kill  me.  He  has 
no  heart.  He  is  pitiless  as  steel,  keen  and  cold 
as  frost.  He  is  like  moonshine  in  a  winter  night 
when  a  man  freezes  to  death  on  some  lonely  moun 
tain  top.  I  am  not  afraid  of  Diaz  and  all  his 
killers;  but  this  boy,  of  him  am  I  afraid.  I  tell 

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you  true.  I  am  afraid.  He  is  the  breath  of 
death." 

Yet  Vera  it  was  who  persuaded  the  others  to 
give  the  first  trust  to  Rivera.  The  line  of  com 
munication  between  Los  Angeles  and  Lower 
California  had  broken  down.  Three  of  the  com 
rades  had  dug  their  own  graves  and  been  shot  into 
them.  Two  more  were  United  States  prisoners 
in  Los  Angeles.  Juan  Alvarado,  the  Federal  com 
mander,  was  a  monster.  All  their  plans  did  he 
checkmate.  They  could  no  longer  gain  access 
to  the  active  revolutionists,  and  the  incipient  ones, 
in  Lower  California. 

Young  Rivera  was  given  his  instructions  and 
dispatched  south.  When  he  returned,  the  line 
of  communication  was  reestablished,  and  Juan 
Alvarado  was  dead.  He  had  been  found  in  bed, 
a  knife  hilt-deep  in  his  breast.  This  had  ex 
ceeded  Rivera's  instructions,  but  they  of  the 
Junta  knew  the  times  of  his  movements.  They 
did  not  ask  him.  He  said  nothing.  But  they 
looked  at  one  another  and  conjectured. 

"I  have  told  you,"  said  Vera.  "Diaz  has  more 
to  fear  from  this  youth  than  from  any  man.  He 
is  implacable.  He  is  the  hand  of  God." 

The  bad  temper,  mentioned  by  May  Sethby, 
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and  sensed  by  them  all,  was  evidenced  by  phy 
sical  proofs.  Now  he  appeared  with  a  cut  lip, 
a  blackened  cheek,  or  a  swollen  ear.  It  was 
patent  that  he  brawled,  somewhere  in  that  out 
side  world  where  he  ate  and  slept,  gained  money, 
and  moved  in  ways  unknown  to  them.  As  the 
time  passed,  he  had  come  to  set  type  for  the  little 
revolutionary  sheet  they  published  weekly.  There 
were  occasions  when  he  was  unable  to  set  type, 
when  his  knuckles  were  bruised  and  battered, 
when  his  thumbs  were  injured  and  helpless,  when 
one  arm  or  the  other  hung  wearily  at  his  side 
while  his  face  was  drawn  with  unspoken  pain. 

"A  wastrel,"  said  Arrellano. 

"A  frequenter  of  low  places,"  said  Ramos. 

"But  where  does  he  get  the  money*?"  Vera  de 
manded.  "Only  to-day,  just  now,  have  I  learned 
that  he  paid  the  bill  for  white  paper — one  hun 
dred  and  forty  dollars." 

"There  are  his  absences,"  said  May  Sethby. 
"He  never  explains  them." 

"We  should  set  a  spy  upon  him,"  Ramos  pro 
pounded. 

"I  should  not  care  to  be  that  spy,"  said  Vera. 
"I  fear  you  would  never  see  me  again,  save  to 
bury  me.  He  has  a  terrible  passion.  Not  even 

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God  would  he  permit  to  stand  between  him  and 
the  way  of  his  passion." 

"I  feel  like  a  child  before  him,"  Ramos  con 
fessed. 

"To  me  he  is  power — he  is  the  primitive,  the 
wild  wolf, — the  striking  rattlesnake,  the  stinging 
centipede,"  said  Arrellano. 

"He  is  the  Revolution  incarnate,"  said  Vera. 
"He  is  the  flame  and  the  spirit  of  it,  the  in 
satiable  cry  for  vengeance  that  makes  no  cry  but 
that  slays  noiselessly.  He  is  a  destroying  angel 
moving  through  the  still  watches  of  the  night." 

"I  could  weep  over  him,"  said  May  Sethby. 
"He  knows  nobody.  He  hates  all  people.  Us 
he  tolerates,  foj;  we  are  the  way  of  his  desire. 
He  is  alone  .  .  .  lonely."  Her  voice  broke 
in  a  half  sob  and  there  was  dimness  in  her 
eyes. 

Rivera's  ways  and  times  were  truly  mysterious. 
There  were  periods  when  they  did  not  see  him 
for  a  week  at  a  time.  Once,  he  was  away  a 
month.  These  occasions  were  always  capped  by 
his  return,  when,  without  advertisement  or  speech, 
he  laid  gold  coins  on  May  Sethby's  desk.  Again, 
for  days  and  weeks,  he  spent  all  his  time  with 
the  Junta.  And  yet  again,  for  irregular  periods, 

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he  would  disappear  through  the  heart  of  each  day, 
from  early  morning  until  late  afternoon.  At 
such  times  he  came  early  and  remained  late. 
Arrellano  had  found  him  at  midnight,  setting 
type  with  fresh  swollen  knuckles,  or  mayhap  it 
was  his  lip,  new-split,  that  still  bled. 

II 

The  time  of  the  crisis  approached.  Whether 
or  not  the  Revolution  would  be  depended  upon 
the  Junta,  and  the  Junta  was  hard-pressed.  The 
need  for  money  was  greater  than  ever  before, 
while  money  was  harder  to  get.  Patriots  had 
given  their  last  cent  and  now  could  give  no  more. 
Section  gang  laborers — fugitive  peons  from 
Mexico — were  contributing  half  their  scanty 
wages.  But  more  than  that  was  needed.  The 
heart-breaking,  conspiring,  undermining  toil  of 
years  approached  fruition.  The  time  was  ripe. 
The  Revolution  hung  on  the  balance.  One  shove 
more,  one  last  heroic  effort,  and  it  would  tremble 
across  the  scales  to  victory.  They  knew  their 
Mexico.  Once  started,  the  Revolution  would 
take  care  of  itself.  The  whole  Diaz  machine 
would  go  down  like  a  house  of  cards.  The 

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border  was  ready  to  rise.  One  Yankee,  with  a 
hundred  I.  W.  W.  men,  waited  the  word  to  cross 
over  the  border  and  begin  the  conquest  of  Lower 
California.  But  he  needed  guns.  And  clear 
across  to  the  Atlantic,  the  Junta  in  touch  with 
them  all  and  all  of  them  needing  guns,  mere  ad 
venturers,  soldiers  of  fortune,  bandits,  disgruntled 
American  union  men,  socialists,  anarchists, 
rough-necks,  Mexican  exiles,  peons  escaped  from 
bondage,  whipped  miners  from  the  bull-pens  of 
Cceur  d'Alene  and  Colorado  who  desired  only  the 
more  vindictively  to  fight — all  the  flotsam  and 
jetsam  of  wild  spirits  from  the  madly  complicated 
modern  world.  And  it  was  guns  and  ammuni 
tion,  ammunition  and  guns — the  unceasing  and 
eternal  cry. 

Fling  this  heterogeneous,  bankrupt,  vindictive 
mass  across  the  border,  and  the  Revolution  was 
on.  The  custom  house,  the  northern  ports  of 
entry,  would  be  captured.  Diaz  could  not  resist. 
He  dared  not  throw  the  weight  of  his  armies 
against  them,  for  he  must  hold  the  south.  And 
through  the  south  the  flame  would  spread  despite. 
The  people  would  rise.  The  defenses  of  city 
after  city  would  crumple  up.  State  after  state 
would  totter  down.  And  at  last,  from  every 

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side,  the  victorious  armies  of  the  Revolution 
would  close  in  on  the  City  of  Mexico  itself, 
Diaz's  last  stronghold. 

But  the  money.  They  had  the  men,  impatient 
and  urgent,  who  would  use  the  guns.  They  knew 
the  traders  who  would  sell  and  deliver  the  guns. 
But  to  culture  the  Revolution  thus  far  had  ex 
hausted  the  Junta.  The  last  dollar  had  been 
spent,  the  last  resource  and  the  last  starving 
patriot  milked  dry,  and  the  great  adventure  still 
trembled  on  the  scales.  Guns  and  ammunition! 
The  ragged  battalions  must  be  armed.  But  how? 
Ramos  lamented  his  confiscated  estates.  Arrel- 
lano  wailed  the  spendthriftness  of  his  youth. 
May  Sethby  wondered  if  it  would  have  been  dif 
ferent  had  they  of  the  Junta  been  more  econom 
ical  in  the  past. 

"To  think  that  the  freedom  of  Mexico  should 
stand  or  fall  on  a  few  paltry  thousands  of  dol 
lars,"  said  Paulino  Vera. 

Despair  was  in  all  their  faces.  Jose  Amarillo, 
their  last  hope,  a  recent  convert,  who  had  prom 
ised  money,  had  been  apprehended  at  his  hacienda 
in  Chihuahua  and  shot  against  his  own  stable 
wall.  The  news  had  just  come  through. 

Rivera,  on  his  knees,  scrubbing,  looked  up,  with 
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suspended  brush,  his  bare  arms  flecked  with  soapy, 
dirty  water. 

"Will  five  thousand  do  it?"  he  asked. 

They  looked  their  amazement.  Vera  nodded 
and  swallowed.  He  could  not  speak,  but  he  was 
on  the  instant  invested  with  a  vast  faith. 

"Order  the  guns,"  Rivera  said,  and  thereupon 
was  guilty  of  the  longest  flow  of  words  they  had 
ever  heard  him  utter.  "The  time  is  short.  In 
three  weeks  I  shall  bring  you  the  five  thousand. 
It  is  well.  The  weather  will  be  warmer  for  those 
who  fight.  Also,  it  is  the  best  I  can  do." 

Vera  fought  his  faith.  It  was  incredible. 
Too  many  fond  hopes  had  been  shattered  since 
he  had  begun  to  play  the  revolution  game.  He 
believed  this  threadbare  scrubber  of  the  Revolu 
tion,  and  yet  he  dared  not  believe. 

"You  are  crazy,"  he  said. 

"In  three  weeks,"  said  Rivera.  "Order  the 
guns." 

He  got  up,  rolled  down  his  sleeves,  and  put  on 
his  coat. 

"Order  the  guns,"  he  said.     "I  am  going  now." 

Ill 

After  hurrying  and  scurrying,  much  telephon- 
255  " 


THE  MEXICAN 

ing  and  bad  language,  a  night  session  was  held  in 
Kelly's  office.  Kelly  was  rushed  with  business; 
also,  he  was  unlucky.  He  had  brought  Danny 
Ward  out  from  New  York,  arranged  the  fight 
for  him  with  Billy  Carthey,  the  date  was  three 
weeks  away,  and  for  two  days  now,  carefully  con 
cealed  from  the  sporting  writers,  Carthey  had 
been  lying  up,  badly  injured.  There  was  no  one 
to  take  his  place.  Kelly  had  been  burning  the 
wires  East  to  every  eligible  lightweight,  but  they 
were  tied  up  with  dates  and  contracts.  And  now 
hope  had  revived,  though  faintly. 

"You  've  got  a  hell  of  a  nerve,"  Kelly  ad 
dressed  Rivera,  after  one  look,  as  soon  as  they 
got  together. 

Hate  that  was  malignant  was  in  Rivera's  eyes, 
but  his  face  remained  impassive. 

"I  can  lick  Ward,"  was  all  he  said. 

"How  do  you  know?     Ever  see  him  fight?" 

Rivera  shook  his  head. 

"He  can  beat  you  up  with  one  hand  and  both 
eyes  closed." 

Rivera  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Have  n't  you  got  anything  to  say?"  the  fight 
promoter  snarled. 

"I  can  lick  him." 

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"Who'd  you  ever  fight,  anyway?"  Michael 
Kelly  demanded.  Michael  was  the  promoter's 
brother,  and  ran  the  Yellowstone  pool  rooms 
where  he  made  goodly  sums  on  the  fight 
game. 

Rivera  favored  him  with  a  bitter,  unanswering 
stare. 

The  promoter's  secretary,  a  distinctively  sporty 
young  man,  sneered  audibly. 

"Well,  you  know  Roberts,"  Kelly  broke  the 
hostile  silence.  "He  ought  to  be  here.  I  've  sent 
for  him.  Sit  down  and  wait,  though  from  the 
looks  of  you,  you  have  n't  got  a  chance.  I  can't 
throw  the  public  down  with  a  bum  fight.  Ring 
side  seats  are  selling  at  fifteen  dollars,  you  know 
that." 

When  Roberts  arrived,  it  was  patent  that  he 
was  mildly  drunk.  He  was  a  tall,  lean,  slack- 
jointed  individual,  and  his  walk,  like  his  talk,  was 
a  smooth  and  languid  drawl. 

Kelly  went  straight  to  the  point. 

"Look  here,  Roberts,  you  've  been  braggin*  you 
discovered  this  little  Mexican.  You  know 
Carthey  's  broke  his  arm.  Well,  this  little  yellow 
streak  has  the  gall  to  blow  in  to-day  and  say  he  '11 
take  Carthey's  place.  What  about  it?" 

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"It 's  all  right,  Kelly,"  came  the  slow  response. 
"He  can  put  up  a  fight." 

"I  suppose  you  '11  be  sayin'  next  that  he  can 
lick  Ward,"  Kelly  snapped. 

Roberts  considered  judicially. 

"No,  I  won't  say  that.  Ward  's  a  top-notcher 
and  a  ring  general.  But  he  can't  hashhouse  Rivera 
in  short  order.  I  know  Rivera.  Nobody  can  get 
his  goat.  He  ain't  got  a  goat  that  I  could  ever 
discover.  And  he  's  a  two-handed  fighter.  He 
can  throw  in  the  sleep-makers  from  any  position." 

"Never  mind  that.  What  kind  of  a  show  can 
he  put  up?  You  've  been  conditioning  and  train 
ing  fighters  all  your  life.  I  take  off  my  hat  to 
your  judgment.  Can  he  give  the  public  a  run  for 
its  money"?" 

"He  sure  can,  and  he  '11  worry  Ward  a  mighty 
heap  on  top  of  it.  You  don't  know  that  boy. 
I  do.  I  discovered  him.  He  ain't  got  a  goat. 
He  's  a  devil.  He  's  a  wizzy-wooz  if  anybody 
should  ask  you.  He  '11  make  Ward  sit  up  with 
a  show  of  local  talent  that'll  make  the  rest  of 
you  sit  up.  I  won't  say  he  '11  lick  Ward,  but 
he  '11  put  up  such  a  show  that  you  '11  all  know 
he's  a  comer." 

"All   right."     Kelly   turned  to  his  secretary. 

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"Ring  up  Ward.  I  warned  him  to  show  up  if 
I  thought  it  worth  while.  He  's  right  across  at 
the  Yellowstone,  throwin'  chests  and  doing  the 
popular."  Kelly  turned  back  to  the  conditioner. 
"Have  a  drink'?" 

Roberts  sipped  his  highball  and  unburdened 
himself. 

"Never  told  you  how  I  discovered  the  little 
cuss.  It  was  a  couple  of  years  ago  he  showed  up 
out  at  the  quarters.  I  was  getting  Prayne  ready 
for  his  fight  with  Delaney.  Prayne  's  wicked.  He 
ain't  got  a  tickle  of  mercy  in  his  make-up.  He  'd 
chopped  up  his  pardner's  something  cruel,  and  I 
could  n't  find  a  willing  boy  that  'd  work  with 
him.  I  'd  noticed  this  little  starved  Mexican  kid 
hanging  around,  and  I  was  desperate.  So  I 
grabbed  him,  slammed  on  the  gloves,  and  put 
him  in.  He  was  tougher  'n  rawhide,  but  weak. 
And  he  did  n't  know  the  first  letter  in  the  al 
phabet  of  boxing.  Prayne  chopped  him  to  rib 
bons.  But  he  hung  on  for  two  sickening  rounds, 
when  he  fainted.  Starvation,  that  was  all. 
Battered*?  You  couldn't  have  recognized  him. 
I  gave  him  half  a  dollar  and  a  square  meal.  You 
oughta  seen  him  wolf  it  down.  He  had  n't  had 
a  bite  for  a  couple  of  days.  That 's  the  end  of 

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him,  thinks  I.  But  next  day  he  showed  up,  stiff 
an'  sore,  ready  for  another  half  and  a  square  meal. 
And  he  done  better  as  time  went  by.  Just  a 
bom  fighter,  and  tough  beyond  belief.  He 
has  n't  a  heart.  He 's  a  piece  of  ice.  And  he 
never  talked  eleven  words  in  a  string  since  I  know 
him.  He  saws  wood  and  does  his  work." 

"I  've  seen  'm,"  the  secretary  said.  "He 's 
worked  a  lot  for  you." 

"All  the  big  little  fellows  has  tried  out  on  him," 
Roberts  answered.  "And  he  's  learned  from  'em. 
I  've  seen  some  of  them  he  could  lick.  But  his 
heart  was  n't  in  it.  I  reckoned  he  never  liked  the 
game.  He  seemed  to  act  that  way." 

"He 's  been  fighting  some  before  the  little  clubs 
the  last  few  months,"  Kelly  said. 

"Sure.  But  I  don't  know  what  struck  'm. 
All  of  a  sudden  his  heart  got  into  it.  He  just  went 
out  like  a  streak  and  cleaned  up  all  the  little  local 
fellows.  Seemed  to  want  the  money,  and  he  's 
won  a  bit,  though  his  clothes  don't  look  it.  He  's 
peculiar.  Nobody  knows  his  business.  Nobody 
knows  how  he  spends  his  time.  Even  when  he  's 
on  the  job,  he  plumb  up  and  disappears  most  of 
each  day  soon  as  his  work  is  done.  Sometimes 
he  just  blows  away  for  weeks  at  a  time.  But  he 

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don't  take  advice.  There  's  a  fortune  in  it  for 
the  fellow  that  gets  the  job  of  managin'  him,  only 
he  won't  consider  it.  And  you  watch  him  hold 
out  for  the  cash  money  when  you  get  down  to 
terms." 

It  was  at  this  stage  that  Danny  Ward  arrived. 
Quite  a  party  it  was.  His  manager  and  trainer 
were  with  him,  and  he  breezed  in  like  a  gusty 
draught  of  geniality,  good-nature,  and  all-con- 
queringness.  Greetings  flew  about,  a  joke  here, 
a  retort  there,  a  smile  or  a  laugh  for  everybody. 
,Yet  it  was  his  way,  and  only  partly  sincere.  He 
was  a  good  actor,  and  he  had  found  geniality  a 
most  valuable  asset  in  the  game  of  getting  on  in 
the  world.  But  down  underneath  he  was  the  de 
liberate,  cold-blooded  fighter  and  business  man. 
The  rest  was  a  mask.  Those  who  knew  him  or 
trafficked  with  him  said  that  when  it  came  to 
brass  tacks  he  was  Danny-on-the-Spot.  He  was 
invariably  present  at  all  business  discussions,  and 
it  was  urged  by  some  that  his  manager  was  a 
blind  whose  only  function  was  to  serve  as  Danny's 
mouth-piece. 

Rivera's  way  was  different.  Indian  blood,  as 
well  as  Spanish,  was  in  his  veins,  and  he  sat  back 
in  a  corner,  silent,  immobile,  only  his  black  eyes 

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passing  from  face  to  face  and  noting  everything. 

"So  that  's  the  guy,"  Danny  said,  running  an 
appraising  eye  over  his  proposed  antagonist. 
"How  de  do,  old  chap." 

Rivera's  eyes  burned  venomously,  but  he  made 
no  sign  of  acknowledgment.  He  disliked  all 
Gringos,  but  this  Gringo  he  hated  with  an  im 
mediacy  that  was  unusual  even  in  him. 

"Gawd!"  Danny  protested  facetiously  to  the 
promoter.  "You  ain't  expectin'  me  to  fight  a 
deef  mute."  When  the  laughter  subsided,  he 
made  another  hit.  "Los  Angeles  must  be  on  the 
dink  when  this  is  the  best  you  can  scare  up. 
What  kindergarten  did  you  get  'm  from?" 

"He  's  a  good  little  boy,  Danny,  take  it  from 
me,"  Roberts  defended.  "Not  as  easy  as  he 
looks." 

"And  half  the  house  is  sold  already,"  Kelly 
pleaded.  "You  '11  have  to  take  'm  on,  Danny. 
It 's  the  best  we  can  do." 

Danny  ran  another  careless  and  unflattering 
glance  over  Rivera  and  sighed. 

"I  gotta  be  easy  with  'm,  I  guess.  If  only  he 
don't  blow  up." 

Roberts  snorted. 

"You  gotta  be  careful,"  Danny's  manager 
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THE  MEXICAN 

warned.     "No  taking  chances  with  a  dub  that's 
likely  to  sneak  a  lucky  one  across." 

"Oh,  I  '11  be  careful  all  right,  all  right,"  Danny 
smiled.  "I  '11  get  'm  at  the  start  an'  nurse  'm 
along  for  the  dear  public's  sake.  What  d'  ye  say 
to  fifteen  rounds,  Kelly —  An'  then  the  hay  for 
him?" 

"That  '11  do,"  was  the  answer.  "As  long  as 
you  make  it  realistic." 

"Then  let 's  get  down  to  biz."  Danny  paused 
and  calculated.  "Of  course,  sixty-five  per  cent, 
of  gate  receipts,  same  as  with  Carthey.  But  the 
split  '11  be  different.  Eighty  will  just  about  suit 
me."  And  to  his  manager,  "That  right?" 

The  manager  nodded. 

"Here,  you,  did  you  get  that?"  Kelly  asked 
Rivera. 

Rivera  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  it 's  this  way,"  Kelly  exposited.  "The 
purse  '11  be  sixty-five  per  cent,  of  the  gate  receipts. 
You  're  a  dub,  and  an  unknown.  You  and 
Danny  split,  twenty  per  cent,  goin'  to  you,  an' 
eighty  to  Danny.  That  5s  fair,  is  n't  it,  Rob 
erts?" 

"Very  fair,  Rivera,"  Roberts  agreed.  "You 
see,  you  ain't  got  a  reputation  yet." 

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"What  will  sixty-five  per  cent,  of  the  gate  re 
ceipts  be?"  Rivera  demanded. 

"Oh,  maybe  five  thousand,  maybe  as  high 
as  eight  thousand,"  Danny  broke  in  to  ex 
plain.  "Something  like  that.  Your  share  '11 
come  to  something  like  a  thousand  or  six 
teen  hundred.  Pretty  good  for  takin'  a  licking 
from  a  guy  with  my  reputation.  What  d'  ye 
say?" 

Then  Rivera  took  their  breaths  away. 

"Winner  takes  all,"  he  said  with  finality. 

A  dead  silence  prevailed. 

"It 's  like  candy  from  a  baby,"  Danny's  man 
ager  proclaimed. 

Danny  shook  his  head. 

"I  've  been  in  the  game  too  long\"  he  explained. 
"I  'm  not  casting  reflections  on  the  referee,  or  the 
present  company.  I  'm  not  sayin'  nothing  about 
book-makers  an'  frame-ups  that  sometimes  hap 
pen.  But  what  I  do  say  is  that  it 's  poor  business 
for  a  fighter  like  me.  I  play  safe.  There  's  no 
tellin'.  Mebbe  I  break  my  arm,  eh?  Or  some 
guy  slips  me  a  bunch  of  dope?"  He  shook  his 
head  solemnly.  "Win  or  lose,  eighty  is  my  split. 
What  d'  ye  say,  Mexican?" 

Rivera  shook  his  head. 
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THE  MEXICAN 

Danny  exploded.  He  was  getting  down  to 
brass  tacks  now. 

"Why,  you  dirty  little  greaser !  I  've  a  mind 
to  knock  your  block  off  right  now." 

Roberts  drawled  his  body  to  interposition  be 
tween  hostilities. 

"Winner  takes  all,"  Rivera  repeated  sullenly. 

"Why  do  you  stand  out  that  way?"  Danny 
asked. 

"I  can  lick  you,"  was  the  straight  answer. 

Danny  half  started  to  take  off  his  coat.  But, 
as  his  manager  knew,  it  was  a  grand  stand  play. 
The  coat  did  not  come  off,  and  Danny  allowed 
himself  to  be  placated  by  the  group.  Everybody 
sympathized  with  him.  Rivera  stood  alone. 

"Look  here,  you  little  fool,"  Kelly  took  up  the 
argument.  "You  're  nobody.  We  know  what 
you  've  been  doing  the  last  few  months — putting 
away  little  local  fighters.  But  Danny  is  class. 
His  next  fight  after  this  will  be  for  the  cham 
pionship.  And  you  're  unknown.  Nobody  ever 
heard  of  you  out  of  Los  Angeles." 

"They  will,"  Rivera  answered  with  a  shrug, 
"after  this  fight." 

"You  think  for  a  second  you  can  lick  me?" 
Danny  blurted  in. 

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THE  MEXICAN 

Rivera  nodded. 

"Oh,  come;  listen  to  reason,"  Kelly  pleaded. 
"Think  of  the  advertising." 

"I  want  the  money,"  was  Rivera's  answer. 

"You  couldn't  win  from  me  in  a  thousand 
years,"  Danny  assured  him. 

"Then  what  are  you  holding  out  for?"  Rivera 
countered.  "If  the  money 's  that  easy,  why  don't 
you  go  after  it*?" 

"I  will,  so  help  me !"  Danny  cried  with  abrupt 
conviction.  "I  '11  beat  you  to  death  in  the  ring, 
my  boy — you  monkeyin'  with  me  this  way.  Make 
out  the  articles,  Kelly.  Winner  take  all.  Play 
it  up  in  the  sportin'  columns.  Tell  'em  it's  a 
grudge  fight.  I  '11  show  this  fresh  kid  a  few." 

Kelly's  secretary  had  begun  to  write,  when 
Danny  interrupted. 

"Hold  on!"  He  turned  to  Rivera.  "Weights?" 

"Ringside,"  came  the  answer. 

"Not  on  your  life,  Fresh  Kid.  If  winner  takes 
all,  we  weigh  in  at  ten  A.  M." 

"And  winner  takes  all?"  Rivera  queried. 

Danny  nodded.  That  settled  it.  He  would 
enter  the  ring  in  his  full  ripeness  of  strength. 

"Weigh  in  at  ten,"  Rivera  said. 

The  secretary's  pen  went  on  scratching. 
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"It  means  five  pounds,"  Roberts  complained  to 
Rivera.  "You  've  given  too  much  away. 
You  've  thrown  the  fight  right  there.  Danny  '11 
be  as  strong  as  a  bull.  You  're  a  fool.  He  '11 
lick  you  sure.  ,You  ain't  got  the  chance  of  a  dew- 
drop  in  hell." 

Rivera's  answer  was  a  calculated  look  of 
hatred.  Even  this  Gringo  he  despised,  and  him 
had  he  found  the  whitest  Gringo  of  them  all. 

IV 

Barely  noticed  was  Rivera  as  he  entered  the 
ring.  Only  a  very  slight  and  very  scattering 
ripple  of  half-hearted  hand-clapping  greeted 
him.  The  house  did  not  believe  in  him.  He 
was  the  lamb  led  to  slaughter  at  the  hands  of 
the  great  Danny.  Besides,  the  house  was  disap 
pointed.  It  had  expected  a  rushing  battle  be 
tween  Danny  Ward  and  Billy  Carthey,  and  here 
it  must  put  up  with  this  poor  little  tyro.  Still 
further,  it  had  manifested  its  disapproval  of  the 
change  by  betting  two,  and  even  three,  to  one  on 
Danny.  And  where  a  betting  audience's  money 
is,  there  is  its  heart. 

The  Mexican  boy  sat  down  in  his  corner  and 

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waited.  The  slow  minutes  lagged  by.  Danny 
was  making  him  wait.  It  was  an  old  trick,  but 
ever  it  worked  on  the  young,  new  fighters.  They 
grew  frightened,  sitting  thus  and  facing  their  own 
apprehensions  and  a  callous,  tobacco-smoking 
audience.  But  for  once  the  trick  failed.  Rob 
erts  was  right.  Rivera  had  no  goat.  He,  who 
was  more  delicately  coordinated,  more  finely 
nerved  and  strung  than  any  of  them,  had  no 
nerves  of  this  sort.  The  atmosphere  of  fore 
doomed  defeat  in  his  own  corner  had  no  effect  on 
him.  His  handlers  were  Gringos  and  strangers. 
Also  they  were  scrubs — the  dirty  driftage  of  the 
fight  game,  without  honor,  without  efficiency. 
And  they  were  chilled,  as  well,  with  certitude  that 
theirs  was  the  losing  corner. 

"Now  you  gotta  be  careful,"  Spider  Hagerty 
warned  him.  Spider  was  his  chief  second. 
"Make  it  last  as  long  as  you  can — them  's  my  in 
structions  from  Kelly.  If  you  don't,  the  papers 
'11  call  it  another  bum  fight  and  give  the  game  a 
bigger  black  eye  in  Los  Angeles." 

All  of  which  was  not  encouraging.  But  Rivera 
took  no  notice.  He  despised  prize  fighting.  It 
was  the  hated  game  of  the  hated  Gringo.  He 
had  taken  up  with  it,  as  a  chopping  block  for 

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others  in  the  training  quarters,  solely  because  he 
was  starving.  The  fact  that  he  was  marvelously 
made  for  it,  had  meant  nothing.  He  hated  it. 
Not  until  he  had  come  in  to  the  Junta,  had  he 
fought  for  money,  and  he  had  found  the  money 
easy.  Not  first  among  the  sons  of  men  had  he 
been  to  find  himself  successful  at  a  despised  voca 
tion. 

He  did  not  analyze.  He  merely  knew  that  he 
must  win  this  fight.  There  could  be  no  other  out 
come.  For  behind  him,  nerving  him  to  this  be 
lief,  were  profounder  forces  than  any  the  crowded 
house  dreamed.  Danny  Ward  fought  for  money, 
and  for  the  easy  ways  of  life  that  money 
would  bring.  But  the  things  Rivera  fought  for 
burned  in  his  brain — blazing  and  terrible  visions, 
that,  with  eyes  wide  open,  sitting  lonely  in  the 
corner  of  the  ring  and  waiting  for  his  tricky 
antagonist,  he  saw  as  clearly  as  he  had  lived 
them. 

He  saw  the  white-walled,  water-power  factories 
of  Rio  Blanco.  He  saw  the  six  thousand  workers, 
starved  and  wan,  and  the  little  children,  seven 
and  eight  years  of  age,  who  toiled  long  shifts 
for  ten  cents  a  day.  He  saw  the  perambulating 
corpses,  the  ghastly  death's  heads  of  men  who 

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labored  in  the  dye-rooms.  He  remembered  that 
he  had  heard  his  father  call  the  dye-rooms  the 
"suicide-holes,"  where  a  year  was  death.  He  saw 
the  little  patio,  and  his  mother  cooking  and  moil 
ing  at  crude  housekeeping  and  finding  time  to 
caress  and  love  him.  And  his  father  he  saw, 
large,  big-moustached  and  deep-chested,  kindly 
above  all  men,  who  loved  all  men  and  whose 
heart  was  so  large  that  there  was  love  to  overflow 
ing  still  left  for  the  mother  and  the  little  muchacho 
playing  in  the  corner  of  the  patio.  In  those  days 
his  name  had  not  been  Felipe  Rivera.  It  had 
been  Fernandez,  his  father's  and  mother's  name. 
Him  had  they  called  Juan.  Later,  he  had 
changed  it  himself,  for  he  had  found  the  name 
of  Fernandez  hated  by  prefects  of  police,  jefes 
politicos,  and  rurales. 

Big,  hearty  Joaquin  Fernandez!  A  large 
place  he  occupied  in  Rivera's  visions.  He  had 
not  understood  at  the  time,  but  looking  back  he 
could  understand.  He  could  see  him  setting  type 
in  the  little  printery,  or  scribbling  endless  hasty, 
nervous  lines  on  the  much-cluttered  desk.  And 
he  could  see  the  strange  evenings,  when  workmen, 
coming  secretly  in  the  dark  like  men  who  did  ill 
deeds,  met  with  his  father  and  talked  long  hours 

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where  he,  the  muchacho,  lay  not  always  asleep  in 
the  corner. 

As  from  a  remote  distance  he  could  hear  Spider 
Hagerty  saying  to  him:  "No  layin'  down  at  the 
start.  Them 's  instructions.  Take  a  beatin'  an' 
earn  your  dough." 

Ten  minutes  had  passed,  and  he  still  sat  in  his 
corner.  There  were  no  signs  of  Danny,  who  was 
evidently  playing  the  trick  to  the  limit. 

But  more  visions  burned  before  the  eye  of 
Rivera's  memory.  The  strike,  or,  rather,  the  lock 
out,  because  the  workers  of  Rio  Blanco  had  helped 
their  striking  brothers  of  Puebla.  The  hunger, 
the  expeditions  in  the  hills  for  berries,  the  roots 
and  herbs  that  all  ate  and  that  twisted  and  pained 
the  stomachs  of  all  of  them.  And  then,  the 
nightmare;  the  waste  of  ground  before  the  com 
pany's  store;  the  thousands  of  starving  workers; 
General  Rosalio  Martinez  and  the  soldiers  of 
Porfirio  Diaz;  and  the  death-spitting  rifles  that 
seemed  never  to  cease  spitting,  while  the  workers' 
wrongs  were  washed  and  washed  again  in  their 
own  blood.  And  that  night!  He  saw  the  flat 
cars,  piled  high  with  the  bodies  of  the  slain,  con 
signed  to  Vera  Cruz,  food  for  the  sharks  of  the 
bay.  Again  he  crawled  over  the  grisly  heaps, 

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seeking  and  finding,  stripped  and  mangled,  his 
father  and  his  mother.  His  mother  he  especially 
remembered — only  her  face  projecting,  her  body 
burdened  by  the  weight  of  dozens  of  bodies. 
Again  the  rifles  of  the  soldiers  of  Porfirio  Diaz 
cracked,  and  again  he  dropped  to  the  ground  and 
slunk  away  like  some  hunted  coyote  of  the  hills. 
To  his  ears  came  a  great  roar,  as  of  the  sea,  and 
he  saw  Danny  Ward,  leading  his  retinue  of 
trainers  and  seconds,  coming  down  the  center 
aisle.  The  house  was  in  wild  uproar  for  the 
popular  hero  who  was  bound  to  win.  Everybody 
proclaimed  him.  Everybody  was  for  him.  Even 
Rivera's  own  seconds  warmed  to  something  akin 
to  cheerfulness  when  Danny  ducked  jauntily 
through  the  ropes  and  entered  the  ring.  His  face 
continually  spread  to  an  unending  succession  of 
smiles,  and  when  Danny  smiled  he  smiled  in  every 
feature,  even  to  the  laughter-wrinkles  of  the  cor 
ners  of  the  eyes  and  into  the  depths  of  the  eyes 
themselves.  Never  was  there  so  genial  a  fighter. 
His  face  was  a  running  advertisement  of  good 
feeling,  of  good  fellowship.  He  knew  everybody, 
He  joked,  and  laughed,  and  greeted  his  friends 
through  the  ropes.  Those  farther  away,  unable 
to  suppress  their  admiration,  cried  loudly:  "Oh, 

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you  Danny!"  It  was  a  joyous  ovation  of  affection 
that  lasted  a  full  five  minutes. 

Rivera  was  disregarded.  For  all  that  the  au 
dience  noticed,  he  did  not  exist.  Spider 
Hagerty's  bloated  face  bent  down  close  to  his. 

"No  gettin'  scared,"  the  Spider  warned.  "An' 
remember  instructions.  You  gotta  last.  No 
layin'  down.  If  you  lay  down,  we  got  instruc 
tions  to  beat  you  up  in  the  dressing  rooms. 
Savve?  You  just  gotta  fight." 

The  house  began  to  applaud.  Danny  was 
crossing  the  ring  to  him.  Danny  bent  over, 
caught  Rivera's  right  hand  in  both  his  own  and 
shook  it  with  impulsive  heartiness.  Danny's 
smile-wreathed  face  was  close  to  his.  The  au 
dience  yelled  its  appreciation  of  Danny's  display 
of  sporting  spirit.  He  was  greeting  his  opponent 
with  the  fondness  of  a  brother.  Danny's  lips 
moved,  and  the  audience,  interpreting  the  unheard 
words  to  be  those  of  a  kindly-natured  sport,  yelled 
again.  Only  Rivera  heard  the  low  words. 

"You  little  Mexican  rat,"  hissed  from  between 
Danny's  gaily  smiling  lips,  "I  '11  fetch  the  yellow 
outa  you." 

Rivera  made  no  move.  He  did  not  rise.  He 
merely  hated  with  his  eyes. 

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"Get  up,  you  dog!"  some  man  yelled  through 
the  ropes  from  behind. 

The  crowd  began  to  hiss  and  boo  him  for  his 
unsportsmanlike  conduct,  but  he  sat  unmoved. 
Another  great  outburst  of  applause  was  Danny's 
as  he  walked  back  across  the  ring. 

When  Danny  stripped,  there  was  ohs !  and  ahs ! 
of  delight.  His  body  was  perfect,  alive  with  easy 
suppleness  and  health  and  strength.  The  skin 
was  white  as  a  woman's,  and  as  smooth.  All 
grace,  and  resilience,  and  power  resided  therein. 
He  had  proved  it  in  scores  of  battles.  His  pho 
tographs  were  in  all  the  physical  culture  maga 
zines. 

A  groan  went  up  as  Spider  Hagerty  peeled 
Rivera's  sweater  over  his  head.  His  body  seemed 
leaner,  because  of  the  swarthiness  of  the  skin.  He 
had  muscles,  but  they  made  no  display  like  his 
opponent's.  What  the  audience  neglected  to  see 
was  the  deep  chest.  Nor  could  it  guess  the 
toughness  of,  the  fiber  of  the  flesh,  the  instantan- 
eousness  of  the  cell  explosions  of  the  muscles,  the 
fineness  of  the  nerves  that  wired  every  part  of 
him  into  a  spendid  fighting  mechanism.  All  the 
audience  saw  was  a  brown-skinned  boy  of  eighteen 
with  what  seemed  the  body  of  a  boy.  With 

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Danny  it  was  different.  Danny  was  a  man  of 
twenty- four,  and  his  body  was  a  man's  body. 
The  contrast  was  still  more  striking  as  they  stood 
together  in  the  center  of  the  ring  receiving  the 
referee's  last  instructions. 

Rivera  noticed  Roberts  sitting  directly  behind 
the  newspaper  men.  He  was  drunker  than  usual, 
and  his  speech  was  correspondingly  slower. 

"Take  it  easy,  Rivera,"  Roberts  drawled.  "He 
can't  kill  you,  remember  that.  He  '11  rush  you 
at  the  go-off,  but  don't  get  rattled.  You  just 
cover  up,  and  stall,  and  clinch.  He  can't  hurt 
you  much.  Just  make  believe  to  yourself  that 
he  's  choppin'  out  on  you  at  the  trainin'  quarters." 

Rivera  made  no  sign  that  he  had  heard. 

"Sullen  little  devil,"  Roberts  muttered  to  the 
man  next  to  him.  "He  always  was  that  way." 

But  Rivera  forgot  to  look  his  usual  hatred.  A 
vision  of  countless  rifles  blinded  his  eyes.  Every 
face  in  the  audience,  far  as  he  could  see,  to  the 
high  dollar-seats,  was  transformed  into  a  rifle. 
And  he  saw  the  long  Mexican  border  arid  and 
sun-washed  and  aching,  and  along  it  he  saw  the 
ragged  bands  that  delayed  only  for  the  guns. 

Back  in  his  corner  he  waited,  standing  up. 
His  seconds  had  crawled  out  through  the  ropes, 

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taking  the  canvas  stool  with  them.  Diagonally 
across  the  squared  ring,  Danny  faced  him.  The 
gong  struck,  and  the  battle  was  on.  The  audience 
howled  its  delight.  Never  had  it  seen  a  battle 
open  more  convincingly.  The  papers  were  right. 
It  was  a  grudge  fight.  Three-quarters  of  the  dis 
tance  Danny  covered  in  the  rush  to  get  together, 
his  intention  to  eat  up  the  Mexican  lad  plainly 
advertised.  He  assailed  with  not  one  blow,  nor 
two,  nor  a  dozen.  He  was  a  gyroscope  of  blows, 
a  whirlwind  of  destruction.  Rivera  was  nowhere. 
He  was  overwhelmed,  buried  beneath  avalanches 
of  punches  delivered  from  every  angle  and  posi 
tion  by  a  past  master  in  the  art.  He  was  over 
borne,  swept  back  against  the  ropes,  separated  by 
the  referee,  and  swept  back  against  the  ropes 
again. 

It  was  not  a  fight.  It  was  a  slaughter,  a  mas 
sacre.  Any  audience,  save  a  prize  fighting  one, 
would  have  exhausted  its  emotions  in  that  first 
minute.  Danny  was  certainly  showing  what  he 
could  do — a  splendid  exhibition.  Such  was  the 
certainty  of  the  audience,  as  well  as  its  excite 
ment  and  favoritism,  that  it  failed  to  take  notice 
that  the  Mexican  still  stayed  on  his  feet.  It  for 
got  Rivera.  It  rarely  saw  him,  so  closely  was 

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he  enveloped  in  Danny's  man-eating  attack.  A 
minute  of  this  went  by,  and  two  minutes.  Then, 
in  a  separation,  it  caught  a  clear  glimpse  of  the 
Mexican.  His  lip  was  cut,  his  nose  was  bleed 
ing.  As  he  turned  and  staggered  into  a  clinch, 
the  welts  of  oozing  blood,  from  his  contacts  with 
the  ropes,  showed  in  red  bars  across  his  back. 
But  what  the  audience  did  not  notice  was  that  his 
chest  was  not  heaving  and  that  his  eyes  were 
coldly  burning  as  ever.  Too  many  aspiring 
champions,  in  the  cruel  welter  of  the  training 
camps,  had  practiced  this  man-eating  attack  on 
him.  He  had  learned  to  live  through  for  a  com 
pensation  of  from  half  a  dollar  a  go  up  to  fifteen 
dollars  a  week — a  hard  school,  and  he  was 
schooled  hard. 

Then  happened  the  amazing  thing.  The 
whirling,  blurring  mix-up  ceased  suddenly.  Ri 
vera  stood  alone.  Danny,  the  redoubtable  Danny, 
lay  on  his  back.  His  body  quivered  as  conscious 
ness  strove  to  return  to  it.  He  had  not  staggered 
and  sunk  down,  nor  had  he  gone  over  in  a  long 
slumping  fall.  The  right  hook  of  Rivera  had 
dropped  him  in  midair  with  the  abruptness  of 
death.  The  referee  shoved  Rivera  back  with  one 
hand,  and  stood  over  the  fallen  gladiator  counting 

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the  seconds.  It  is  the  custom  of  prizefighting  au 
diences  to  cheer  a  clean  knock-down  blow.  But 
this  audience  did  not  cheer.  The  thing  had  been 
too  unexpected.  It  watched  the  toll  of  the  sec 
onds  in  tense  silence,  and  through  this  silence  the 
voice  of  Roberts  rose  exultantly: 

"I  told  you  he  was  a  two-handed  fighter!" 
By  the  fifth  second,  Danny  was  rolling  over 
on  his  face,  and  when  seven  was  counted,  he 
rested  on  one  knee,  ready  to  rise  after  the  count 
of  nine  and  before  the  count  of  ten.  If  his  knee 
still  touched  the  floor  at  "ten,"  he  was  considered 
"down,"  and  also  "out."  The  instant  his  knee 
left  the  floor,  he  was  considered  "up,"  and  in  that 
instant  it  was  Rivera's  right  to  try  and  put  him 
down  again.  Rivera  took  no  chances.  The  mo 
ment  that  knee  left  the  floor  he  would  strike  again. 
He  circled  around,  but  the  referee  circled  in  be 
tween,  and  Rivera  knew  that  the  seconds  he 
counted  were  very  slow.  All  Gringos  were 
against  him,  even  the  referee. 

At  "nine"  the  referee  gave  Rivera  a  sharp 
thrust  back.  It  was  unfair,  but  it  enabled  Danny 
to  rise,  the  smile  back  on  his  lips.  Doubled 
partly  over,  with  arms  wrapped  about  face  and 
abdomen,  he  cleverly  stumbled  into  a  clinch.  By 

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all  the  rules  of  the  game  the  referee  should  have 
broken  it,  but  he  did  not,  and  Danny  clung  on 
like  a  surf-battered  barnacle  and  moment  by  mo 
ment  recuperated.  The  last  minute  of  the  round 
was  going  fast.  If  he  could  live  to  the  end,  he 
would  have  a  full  minute  in  his  corner  to  revive. 
And  live  to  the  end  he  did,  smiling  through  all 
desperateness  and  extremity. 

"The  smile  that  won't  come  off!"  somebody 
yelled,  and  the  audience  laughed  loudly  in  its  re 
lief. 

"The  kick  that  Greaser's  got  is  something 
God-awful,"  Danny  gasped  in  his  corner  to  his 
adviser  while  his  handlers  worked  frantically  over 
him. 

The  second  and  third  rounds  were  tame. 
Danny,  a  tricky  and  consummate  ring  general, 
stalled  and  blocked  and  held  on,  devoting  himself 
to  recovering  from  that  dazing  first-round  blow. 
In  the  fourth  round  he  was  himself  again. 
Jarred  and  shaken,  nevertheless  his  good  condi 
tion  had  enabled  him  to  regain  his  vigor.  But  he 
tried  no  man-eating  tactics.  The  Mexican  had 
proved  a  tartar.  Instead,  he  brought  to  bear  his 
best  fighting  powers.  In  tricks  and  skill  and  ex 
perience  he  was  the  master,  and  though  he  could 

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land  nothing  vital,  he  proceeded  scientifically  to 
chop  and  wear  down  his  opponent.  He  landed 
three  blows  to  Rivera's  one,  but  they  were  pun 
ishing  blows  only,  and  not  deadly.  It  was  the 
sum  of  many  of  them  that  constituted  deadliness. 
He  was  respectful  of  this  two-handed  dub  with 
the  amazing  short-arm  kicks  in  both  his  fists. 

In  defense,  Rivera  developed  a  disconcerting 
straight-left.  Again  and  again,  attack  after  at 
tack  he  straight-lefted  away  from  him  with  ac 
cumulated  damage  to  Danny's  mouth  and  nose. 
But  Danny  was  protean.  That  was  why  he  was 
the  coming  champion.  He  could  change  from 
style  to  style  of  fighting  at  will.  He  now  de 
voted  himself  to  infighting.  In  this  he  was  par 
ticularly  wicked,  and  it  enabled  him  to  avoid  the 
other's  straight-left.  Here  he  set  the  house  wild 
repeatedly,  capping  it  with  a  marvelous  lock- 
break  and  lift  of  an  inside  upper-cut  that  raised 
the  Mexican  in  the  air  and  dropped  him  to  the 
mat.  Rivera  rested  on  one  knee,  making  the 
most  of  the  count,  and  in  the  soul  of  him  he 
knew  the  referee  was  counting  short  seconds  on 
him. 

Again,  in  the  seventh,  Danny  achieved  the 
diabolical  inside  uppercut.  He  succeeded  only 

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in  staggering  Rivera,  but,  in  the  ensuing  moment 
of  defenseless  helplessness,  he  smashed  him  with 
another  blow  through  the  ropes.  Rivera's  body 
bounced  on  the  heads  of  the  newspaper  men  be 
low,  and  they  boosted  him  back  to  the  edge  of 
the  platform  outside  the  ropes.  Here  he  rested 
on  one  knee,  while  the  referee  raced  off  the  sec 
onds.  Inside  the  ropes,  through  which  he  must 
duck  to  enter  the  ring,  Danny  waited  for  him. 
Nor  did  the  referee  intervene  or  thrust  Danny 
back. 

The  house  was  beside  itself  with  delight. 

"Kill'm,  Danny,  kill  Jm!"  was  the  cry. 

Scores  of  voices  took  it  up  until  it  was  like  a 
war-chant  of  wolves. 

Danny  did  his  best,  but  Rivera,  at  the  count 
of  eight,  instead  of  nine,  came  unexpectedly 
through  the  ropes  and  safely  into  a  clinch.  Now 
the  referee  worked,  tearing  him  away  so  that  he 
could  be  hit,  giving  Danny  every  advantage  that 
an  unfair  referee  can  give. 

But  Rivera  lived,  and  the  daze  cleared  from 
his  brain.  It  was  all  of  a  piece.  They  were  the 
hated  Gringos  and  they  were  all  unfair.  And 
in  the  worst  of  it  visions  continued  to  flash  and 
sparkle  in  his  brain — long  lines  of  railroad  track 

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that  simmered  across  the  desert;  rurales  and 
American  constables;  prisons  and  calabooses; 
tramps  at  water  tanks — all  the  squalid  and  pain 
ful  panorama  of  his  odyssey  after  Rio  Blanca 
and  the  strike.  And,  resplendent  and  glorious, 
he  saw  the  great,  red  Revolution  sweeping  across 
his  land.  The  guns  were  there  before  him. 
Every  hated  face  was  a  gun.  It  was  for  the  guns 
he  fought.  He  was  the  guns.  He  was  the 
Revolution.  He  fought  for  all  Mexico. 

The  audience  began  to  grow  incensed  with 
Rivera.  Why  did  n't  he  take  the  licking  that 
was  appointed  him^  Of  course  he  was  going  to 
be  licked,  but  why  should  he  be  so  obstinate  about 
it^  Very  few  were  interested  in  him,  and  they 
were  the  certain,  definite  percentage  of  a  gam 
bling  crowd  that  plays  long  shots.  Believing 
Danny  to  be  the  winner,  nevertheless  they  had 
put  their  money  on  the  Mexican  at  four  to  ten 
and  one  to  three.  More  than  a  trifle  was  up  on 
the  point  of  how  many  rounds  Rivera  could  last. 
Wild  money  had  appeared  at  the  ringside  pro 
claiming  that  he  could  not  last  seven  rounds,  or 
even  six.  The  winners  of  this,  now  that  their 
cash  risk  was  happily  settled,  had  joined  in  cheer 
ing  on  the  favorite. 

282 


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Rivera  refused  to  be  licked.  Through  the 
eighth  round  his  opponent  strove  vainly  to  re 
peat  the  uppercut.  In  the  ninth,  Rivera  stunned 
the  house  again.  In  the  midst  of  a  clinch  he  broke 
the  lock  with  a  quick,  lithe  movement,  and  in 
the  narrow  space  between  their  bodies  his  right 
lifted  from  the  waist.  Danny  went  to  the  floor 
and  took  the  safety  of  the  count.  The  crowd 
was  appalled.  He  was  being  bested  at  his  own 
game.  His  famous  right-uppercut  had  been 
worked  back  on  him.  Rivera  made  no  attempt 
to  catch  him  as  he  arose  at  "nine."  The  referee 
was  openly  blocking  that  play,  though  he  stood 
clear  when  the  situation  was  reversed  and  it  was 
Rivera  who  desired  to  rise. 

Twice  in  the  tenth,  Rivera  put  through  the 
right-uppercut,  lifted  from  waist  to  opponent's 
chin.  Danny  grew  desperate.  The  smile  never 
left  his  face,  but  he  went  back  to  his  man-eating 
rushes.  Whirlwind  as  he  would,  he  could  not 
damage  Rivera,  while  Rivera,  through  the  blur 
and  whirl,  dropped  him  to  the  mat  three  times 
in  succession.  Danny  did  not  recuperate  so 
quickly  now,  and  by  the  eleventh  round  he  was  in 
a  serious  way.  But  from  then  till  the  fourteenth 
he  put  up  the  gamest  exhibition  of  his  career. 

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He  stalled  and  blocked,  fought  parsimoniously, 
and  strove  to  gather  strength.  Also,  he  fought  as 
foully  as  a  successful  fighter  knows  how.  Every 
trick  and  device  he  employed,  butting  in  the 
clinches  with  the  seeming  of  accident,  pinioning 
Rivera's  glove  between  arm  and  body,  heeling 
his  glove  on  Rivera's  mouth  to  clog  his  breath 
ing.  Often,  in  the  clinches,  through  his  cut  and 
smiling  lips  he  snarled  insults  unspeakable  and 
vile  in  Rivera's  ear.  Everybody,  from  the  ref 
eree  to  the  house,  was  with  Danny  and  was  help 
ing  Danny.  And  they  knew  what  he  had  in 
mind.  Bested  by  this  surprise-box  of  an  un 
known,  he  was  pinning  all  on  a  single  punch. 
He  offered  himself  for  punishment,  fished,  and 
feinted,  and  drew,  for  that  one  opening  that 
would  enable  him  to  whip  a  blow  through  with 
all  his  strength  and  turn  the  tide.  As  another 
and  greater  fighter  had  done  before  him,  he  might 
do — a  right  and  left,  to  solar  plexus  and  across 
the  jaw.  He  could  do  it,  for  he  was  noted  for 
the  strength  of  punch  that  remained  in  his  arms 
as  long  as  he  could  keep  his  feet. 

Rivera's  seconds  were  not  half -caring  for  him 
in  the  intervals  between  rounds.  Their  towels 
made  a  showing,  but  drove  little  air  into  his  pant- 

284 


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ing  lungs.  Spider  Hagerty  talked  advice  to  him, 
but  Rivera  knew  it  was  wrong  advice.  Every 
body  was  against  him.  He  was  surrounded  by 
treachery.  In  the  fourteenth  round  he  put 
Danny  down  again,  and  himself  stood  resting, 
hands  dropped  at  side,  while  the  referee  counted. 
In  the  other  corner  Rivera  had  been  noting  sus 
picious  whisperings.  He  saw  Michael  Kelly 
make  his  way  to  Roberts  and  bend  and  whisper. 
Rivera's  ears  were  a  cat's,  desert-trained,  and 
he  caught  snatches  of  what  was  said.  He  wanted 
to  hear  more,  and  when  his  opponent  arose  he 
maneuvered  the  fight  into  a  clinch  over  against 
the  ropes. 

"Got  to,"  he  could  hear  Michael,  while  Rob 
erts  nodded.  "Danny 's  got  to  win — I  stand  to 
lose  a  mint — I  've  got  a  ton  of  money  covered — 
my  own — If  he  lasts  the  fifteenth  I  'm  bust — The 
boy '11  mind  you.  Put  something  across." 

And  thereafter  Rivera  saw  no  more  visions. 
They  were  trying  to  job  him.  Once  again  he 
dropped  Danny  and  stood  resting,  his  hands  at 
his  side.  Roberts  stood  up. 

"That  settled  him,"  he  said.  "Go  to  your 
corner." 

He   spoke   with   authority,   as   he   had   often 

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THE  MEXICAN 

spoken  to  Rivera  at  the  training  quarters.  But 
Rivera  looked  hatred  at  him  and  waited  for 
Danny  to  rise.  Back  in  his  corner  in  the  minute 
interval,  Kelly,  the  promoter,  came  and  talked  to 
Rivera. 

"Throw  it,  damn  you,"  he  rasped  in  a  harsh 
low  voice.  "You  gotta  lay  down,  Rivera.  Stick 
with  me  and  I  '11  make  your  future.  I  '11  let  you 
lick  Danny  next  time.  But  here 's  where  you 
lay  down." 

Rivera  showed  with  his  eyes  that  he  heard,  but 
he  made  neither  sign  of  assent  nor  dissent. 

"Why  don't  you  speak*?"  Kelly  demanded 
angrily. 

"You  lose,  anyway,"  Spider  Hagerty  supple 
mented.  "The  referee  '11  take  it  away  from  you. 
Listen  to  Kelly,  and  lay  down." 

"Lay  down,  kid,"  Kelly  pleaded,  "and  I'll 
help  you  to  the  championship." 

Rivera  did  not  answer. 

"I  will,  so  help  me,  kid." 

At  the  strike  of  the  gong  Rivera  sensed  some 
thing  impending.  The  house  did  not.  What 
ever  it  was  it  was  there  inside  the  ring  with  him 
and  very  close.  Danny's  earlier  surety  seemed 
returned  to  him.  The  confidence  of  his  advance 

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frightened  Rivera.  Some  trick  was  about  to  be 
worked.  Danny  rushed,  but  Rivera  refused  the 
encounter.  He  side-stepped  away  into  safety. 
What  the  other  wanted  was  a  clinch.  It  was  in 
some  way  necessary  to  the  trick.  Rivera  backed 
and  circled  away,  yet  he  knew,  sooner  or  later, 
the  clinch  and  the  trick  would  come.  Desper 
ately  he  resolved  to  draw  it.  He  made  as  if  to 
effect  the  clinch  with  Danny's  next  rush.  In 
stead,  at  the  last  instant,  just  as  their  bodies 
should  have  come  together,  Rivera  darted  nimbly 
back.  And  in  the  same  instant  Danny's  corner 
raised  a  cry  of  foul.  Rivera  had  fooled  them. 
The  referee  paused  irresolutely.  The  decision 
that  trembled  on  his  lips  was  never  uttered,  for 
a  shrill,  boy's  voice  from  the  gallery  piped,  "Raw 
work!" 

Danny  cursed  Rivera  openly,  and  forced  him, 
while  Rivera  danced  away.  Also,  Rivera  made 
up  his  mind  to  strike  no  more  blows  at  the  body. 
In  this  he  threw  away  half  his  chance  of  winning, 
but  he  knew  if  he  was  to  win  at  all  it  was  with 
the  outfighting  that  remained  to  him.  Given  the 
least  opportunity,  they  would  lie  a  foul  on  him. 
Danny  threw  all  caution  to  the  winds.  For  two 
rounds  he  tore  after  and  into  the  boy  who  dared 

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not  meet  him  at  close  quarters.  Rivera  was 
struck  again  and  again;  he  took  blows  by  the 
dozens  to  avoid  the  perilous  clinch.  During  this 
supreme  final  rally  of  Danny's  the  audience  rose 
to  its  feet  and  went  mad.  It  did  not  understand. 
All  it  could  see  was  that  its  favorite  was  winning 
after  all. 

"Why  don't  you  fight?"  it  demanded  wrath- 
fully  of  Rivera.  "You  're  yellow !  You  're  yel 
low!"  "Open  up,  you  cur!  Open  up!"  "Kill  'm, 
Danny!  Kill'm!"  "You  sure  got 'm !  Kill'm!" 

In  all  the  house,  bar  none,  Rivera  was  the  only 
cold  man.  By  temperament  and  blood  he  was 
the  hottest-passioned  there;  but  he  had  gone 
through  such  vastly  greater  heats  that  this  collec 
tive  passion  of  ten  thousand  throats,  rising  surge 
on  surge,  was  to  his  brain  no  more  than  the  velvet 
cool  of  a  summer  twilight. 

Into  the  seventeenth  round  Danny  carried  his 
rally.  Rivera,  under  a  heavy  blow,  drooped  and 
sagged.  His  hands  dropped  helplessly  as  he 
reeled  backward.  Danny  thought  it  was  his 
chance.  The  boy  was  at  his  mercy.  Thus 
Rivera,  feigning,  caught  him  off  his  guard,  lash 
ing  out  a  clean  drive  to  the  mouth.  Danny  went 
down.  When  he  arose,  Rivera  felled  him  with  a 

288 


THE  MEXICAN 

down-chop  of  the  right  on  neck  and  jaw.  Three 
times  he  repeated  this.  It  was  impossible  for  any 
referee  to  call  these  blows  foul. 

"Oh,  Bill!  Bill!"  Kelly  pleaded  to  the  referee. 

"I  can't,"  that  official  lamented  back.  "He 
won't  give  me  a  chance." 

Danny,  battered  and  heroic,  still  kept  coming 
up.  Kelly  and  others  near  to  the  ring  began  to 
cry  out  to  the  police  to  stop  it,  though  Danny's 
corner  refused  to  throw  in  the  towel.  Rivera 
saw  the  fat  police  captain  starting  awkwardly  to 
climb  through  the  ropes,  and  was  not  sure  what 
it  meant.  There  were  so  many  ways  of  cheating 
in  this  game  of  the  Gringos.  Danny,  on  his  feet, 
tottered  groggily  and  helplessly  before  him.  The 
referee  and  the  captain  were  both  reaching  for 
Rivera  when  he  struck  the  last  blow.  There  was 
no  need  to  stop  the  fight,  for  Danny  did  not  rise. 

"Count!"  Rivera  cried  hoarsely  to  the  referee. 

And  when  trie  count  was  finished,  Danny's  sec 
onds  gathered  him  up  and  carried  him  to  his  cor 
ner. 

"Who  wins  $"  Rivera  demanded. 

Reluctantly,  the  referee  caught  his  gloved  hand 
and  held  it  aloft. 

There  were  no  congratulations  for  Rivera.  He 
289 


THE  MEXICAN 

walked  to  his  corner  unattended,  where  his  sec 
onds  had  not  yet  placed  his  stool.  He  leaned 
backward  on  the  ropes  and  looked  his  hatred  at 
them,  swept  it  on  and  about  him  till  the  whole 
ten  thousand  Gringos  were  included.  His  knees 
trembled  under  him,  and  he  was  sobbing  from 
exhaustion.  Before  his  eyes  the  hated  faces 
swayed  back  and  forth  in  the  giddiness  of  nausea. 
Then  he  remembered  they  were  the  guns.  The 
guns  were  his.  The  Revolution  could  go  on. 


THE  END 


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